My wife never lies about her age. She just tells everyone she's as old as I am. Then she lies about my age.
- Robert Orben
Ah, Flysters. The days zoom by like brilliant race cars in the hot sun, blurred and disaffected, and here I sit wondering where the last week went. Made me realize something: working from home sucks the life out of me after a while.
I make all the right noises about it, of course, because it is a luxury: “I am more efficient, there's no commute, I am better rested, nobody sticks their head in my office to blather about what a jackass LeBron is, I can work through lunch, blah blah...”
My interactions with other human beings, though, is limited to endless telephone conversations that all start to sound alike after a while. Thanking back to yesterday, three hours of conference calls and a dozen or so one-on-one calls, and my memory of them is like an episode of Charlie Brown when the grown ups talk: “waa waa waaaaaa wa waaa waaaaa.”
Yesterday, turns out, was punctuated by a job interview. This was in person, and commenced at, of all places, a Macaroni Grill restaurant. A loud Macaroni Grill, at that. And it was both the most memorable AND most demanding interview I have ever been through, bringing a new meaning to Macaroni GRILL.
And I flubbed it. Seriously, I was asked questions that a recent college graduate could field with ease, and I started my responses strong then slowly faded into gibberish, over and over again. I drew a blank. I fizzled, sputtered, said “um” a dozen times a minute, and personally think I left the interviewer utterly unimpressed.
Shit. Lotta money for that one, too.
We'll see – you never find out about these things until later, and I should know yea or nay by day's end.
So there's my excuse for not having RtSaC ready on time. Some people say “the dog ate my homework.” Some, “the sun was in my eyes.” Me? “I was busy fucking up my career by sucking ass at a job interview.” The latest in a long line of my most pitiable excuses.
Let us commence to digest whole these four pathetic specimens from DP. Originals HERE if'n you want 'em.
1.) I landed a dream internship in the entertainment industry and on my first day on the job got culminated in a victory party at a bar. I wound up too drunk to drive home. One of the bosses took me home with him, and when we got there he repeatedly tried to kiss me. He told me that he found me incredibly beautiful and sexy. Twenty minutes later, I was throwing up in his living room while he tried to play nurse and let me sleep it off on his couch. I intend to stay at this internship, because it's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Do I write the incident off as a crazy, drunken night and nothing more, or confront him about it?
Harassed and Hungover – Let's discuss the perfect first day at work, shall we? You got drunk, fought off sexual advances, barfed in your boss' living room, crashed on his sofa, and you wonder aloud if this might be written off as a crazy incident?
Better – you think you might want to confront him?
Damn, you're no fun at all. Most women I harass while drunk on their first day put out. Hell, I had one who dressed up in a Mary Poppins hat and umbrella and sang “Spoonful of Sugar” while I spanked her with a rolled-up copy of “Cat Fancy”. I can still hear that song. “Juuuuust aaaaaa spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go dooown...” She had a tramp stamp of Niels Bhor with the phrase “you Bohr me, smart guy, now shut up and wreck it” underneath. Spoke both French and Italian in bed, too.
Sadly enough she quit a month later. The workplace is an evil and sad place.
You? You're kind of a sour puss. You're kind of an idiot as well, although there are two answers I have for you here. Ready, Xaviera?
1.)What kind of moron gets that drunk first day on the job? Just asking. I already know the answer. You. That's what kind of moron gets drunk the first day on the job. Jesus.
2.)You rejected him by saying “I don't understand,” which to him might have meant “I don't understand the theory of relativity, but I certainly understand why your tongue is down my throat.” Didja manage to say “no?” Remember: no means no, and if you didn't say it, and instead professed vapid confusion, you are in gray territory legally, and any confrontation you might have planned carries little weight, unless by “confrontation” you mean “calling him a doo doo head and letting it go at that” which is all the weight you need.
In the end, if you were an intelligent person I would have told you this: yeah, you better have a talk, but this sounds like a pretty laissez faire operation and the party scene has it's risks unless you get the cards out in front first. I must assume that since you haven't called the police already this means you do not feel you were sexually assaulted, and he's probably in the dark given your drunken state. Look – if he'd been serious he would have sexually assaulted you, and this would be a case for the police. Maybe you just need to admit you were lucky.
A smart woman, not you, would carry a message stating it was unacceptable. A smart woman would understand that getting shitfaced on day one of a new job, while not a vivid demonstration of intellect, is also not an invitation to get slobbered on by your new boss.
Maybe you know a smart woman? Have her talk to him. That'll fix it.
2.) When my son was 5 he wanted a $250 gaming system. My husband and I told him that he would have to save up to buy it. After many months, he had half of what he needed. We were so impressed by his strength of character that we pitched in the rest. Two years later, my husband's uncle asked to borrow the system. He had so much fun that he offered to buy it for $180 to be paid in weekly $20 increments. The uncle's payments were erratic, but he eventually made most of them Then the uncle lost his job and has not given my son the final $20. How do I get the uncle to make this last payment without causing a scene?
Mama Bear – Well well well – isn't THIS a cutie pie? The little ragamuffin does a goody, makes right, sees a growth opportunity, and the evil uncle fucks him over. Sweet!
Your question, though, is silly. How do you get him to make the last payment without causing a scene?
YOU DON'T! Well, maybe you don't. Depends on the uncle.
What are you expecting, a little fluffy pillow and a hanky, a tautly-crafted yet sweet script consisting of kind words and proper presentation technique that can clearly state “listen up you cheap-ass prick: he's 8 goddamn years old, you know? Do you think you might try being a just-so-slightly better role model, fuck stick?”
Yep. Thought so.
You ask the people here on The Fly and they'll tell you “Schuyler is a cheap-ass frequently unemployed job-hopping sleaze from way back” and they'd be right, but dammit, if I owe someone $20 I pay the goddamn $20. It's not chest full of Dubloons or a silk satchel filled with Ducats; it's $20, and the kid is 8, for fuck's sake.
You know, for a second I thought I'd say, “why not say to just give the kid $20 and go after the uncle for it on the back side? Lets the kid know that people are good and you can always backtrack on the uncle.”
Naw. Fuck that. Your son already learned that some people pay slowly, and financial issues can cause all manner of havoc, sometimes a deal feels better at the time you make it than it does at the end, and now he knows blood is not thicker than money.
Tell Uncle Dearest he's being a shithead and to give up the twenty. Throw him under the bus. Let your son know all about it. Now there's a lesson in reality.
3.) I am a proud gay man. Recently, while a group of us were having lunch, the topic of two straight female celebrities kissing on an awards show came up. One co-worker called it "trash." She ranted about how it was indecent and that children were watching. She later apologized, saying that her comments were in no way directed to me. How do I tell her how I feel and finally put this behind me?
Out – Dude, what the hell? I find it impossible to believe that a gay man would write a letter like this: this is the kind of letter a straight person pretending to be gay would write.
Wanna know why?
Good. I'll tell you.
There are two kinds of straight people. There are the straight people who think gay people fuck each other in broad daylight, in front of children, intentionally to recruit them into their big fag club; they are “abominations in the eyes of Christ” or some other such religious upfuckery; they all have AIDS or at least syphilis, and if you don't watch out, they'll sneak up on you and try to suck your dick when you aren't looking. Curiously, many of these are closeted gays themselves.
Then there are straight people who are puzzled about gay people, don't get it, don't want it, might even be grossed out about it or scared of it, yet live among, care for, and love gay people anyway.
Both are completely unaware what it is like to be gay, or what gay people go through.
If you are gay and this is the first time in your life someone you care for called has out an activity that appeared to be “gay” in a non-flattering light, then I call bullshit.
You'd have already known how to deal with it.
4.) My younger sister is expecting her first child this fall. She recently completed her baby registries. She is having four showers thrown for her. I have kids of my own, and I know that they require a lot of stuff. But she's registered for just about everything that this child will need until he or she turns 3 years old. Should I speak up about this?
Excited Auntie-To-Be – I have an idea: go ahead. Speak up about it.
Lemme know how that goes.
I have been on rants recently about weddings. I take them very, very seriously, see, because I feel they have become everything that is evil and unwholesome and fucked up and stupid and ill-bred and insane and putrid about this world.
Showers are pretty high on my list, too. Glamorous events, blown so goddamn far out of proportion they currently serve the single purpose of getting everything you can get while the getting is good.
There was a traditional gift I heard about when someone moves into a new house: you bring a broom, a loaf of bread, and salt. Dunno where I heard that, seems kind of old-school charming and there's a saying went with it: “A broom to sweep away your troubles, bread that you will never be hungry, and salt to give spice to your life.”
Awwww. What a nice little tradition.
A toddler bed on a baby registry? Gimme a fucking break.
I remember registering for shit at Babies R Us before my daughter was born and discovering what “layette” was. Also, I remember discovering that “layette” was more expensive than “newborn” stuff, and wondering if Carter's was going to make a clothing line for babies still in the goddamn uterus and charge even more. Newer-than-newborn stuff? What a racket.
But I also remember someone telling me “hey, that $750 European convertible car seat/stroller thing? Just put it on the register! You never know, right? Some rich uncle, maybe...” Right-o. I put it on, felt like a slimeball, and we didn't get it. I am very glad we didn't. What the fuck did I need that for?
The answer is, I didn't, but someone might have, just to grin proudly during the shower, gloating over their award for “most ridiculously expensive gift.”
And THAT is what a shower is for.
Tell Little Sissy that you'll get her the receiving blankets and a nice diaper bag. End of story. If she needed you to teach her about the rights and wrongs of life, she's have come out of your vagina instead of your mother's. Let it go.
Finishing up my post on a Friday morning isn't what I had in mind for this week's column, but what the hell – I have a great lame excuse, don't I?
Tomorrow is my wife's birthday. The big 50. I started planning a nice party, and asked a neighbor to attend to it (she's taken classes doing event catering and hospitality stuff), offered to pay, but then her 8 year old son stole a Silly Band from my daughter. My wife caught him doing it, and we said he wasn't welcome here for a little while, until we could believe he was trustworthy.
Like the great neighbor she was (meaning she was already on her third glass of cheap wine by then, 11:30 in the morning) she banished us from her life and un-friended my wife on Facebook. Seems it's not right to catch kids stealing shit, I dunno. When I stole my friend Brian's matchbox cars I got yelled at, dragged to the door by the ear, and told never to come back. My parents were called and I was grounded, this after having to apologize in public to Brian (who was trying not to laugh just as hard as I was). This might make a great DP letter, if it wasn't so terribly obvious the mama bird ex-event planner is little more than a stupid drunk bitch and her son – generally a nice boy, if a little indulged – is in for a fucked life when he realizes mommy can't fix it when he's 18.
So, the party never got planned, and a big milestone birthday is now relegated to dinner for she and I at a place I haven't even selected yet.
She'll get lotsa neat presents, though – exactly what she wants – and I think I have dinner figured out. Hopefully she won't ready this column today or tomorrow, though...Sunday's good.
And so: cheers, Flysters.