i fucking hate interviews. i get a call from the HR recruiter of a big pharma company. i do a 30 min phone screening with her. she likes me and passes my resume along to the hiring manager. i do a 45 min phone screening with her. she decides to move me along in the interview process. i get scheduled for a 3-hour interview. one hour with the hiring manager. one hour with one of her peers. and a one hour writing test.

ok.

then i’m scheduled to speak with the HR recruiter again. she wants to go over the company’s interview process with me. she sent me a 3-page doc to review beforehand:

“candidate guide to leadership capability interviews”

there’s a diagram and definitions outlining six leadership capabilities used in performance management, managing talent and recruitment.

i’m told that each interviewer will pick 2 or 3 leadership capabilities which align to the job and ask me questions about my work that will demonstrate my abilities.

then i’m told i have to answer the questions in the STAR format. another diagram and more definitions:

S/T- Listen carefully to the question and give an overview of a relevant SITUATION or TASK.  (1-2 min.)

A – Describe what actions I took and avoid talking about  “we.” (5-6 min.)

R-  Discuss the the results and impact my actions had on the business. (2-3 min.)

fucking consultants!  here’s an acronym for consultants: KISS! keep it simple shithead. a 3-page document full of diagrams and definitions! really? why can’t you just ask me to describe what i think is one of my biggest accomplishments! i can structure the answer fucktard. this shit is also used for performance management. if i suck, just tell me straight up. there’s no need to put it in some complex matrix with big fancy consultant phrases.

whatevs. so i prepare for the leadership capability interview (pretty funny considering i didn’t know what capabilities would be assessed or what questions would be asked specific to the capabilities.) i update my portfolio. i research the company and its products.

i iron (fucking significant that’s why it gets its own line).

guess which part i fucked up? the motherfucking writing test!

after two hours of talking leadership capabilities they put me in a room with a laptop and the test. i’m not used to a laptop. i’m old school, bitches. i have a desktop at work and home. i like the big keyboard and am intimate with the layout of the keys. and like my salad dressing, i prefer my mouse on the side.

well, i totally spazzed on the touchpad. and totally ran out of time.

plus, the version of Word that was loaded was unfamiliar and the toolbar wasn’t loaded up. i couldn’t fucking find bullets, bold, italic, etc. i struggled to customize the toolbar. i ended up with grid lines on the page that i couldn’t figure out how to remove.

i spent way too much time with the technology so when the admin came a knocking to tell me my time was up, i hadn’t wrapped up my article, re-read or spell checked it.

fucking frickem frackem godfuckingdamnit.

i wanted to take that laptop out into the field and bash the fucking daylights out of it office space style.

actually four of them in two weeks! but who’s counting. fuck yeah, i’m counting. but only because i can. i’m not one of these superbloggers who receives a bajillion awards. i can count the awards i’ve received on one hand. so, i’m school girl giddy over these awards because i am cursed with the ”seeks approval of others” neurosis. i blame my mother. and before you label me as having a victim mentality, you should know even my therapist said i can blame her. 

so here they are and you should definitely click on them because they gave me an award. no, click on them because they’ll like me more for sending traffic their way. oh alright, click on them because they’re cuddly, lovable and full of the awesome. 

from brahm at alfred lives here

from sandi at being peachy

from nikki at my cyber house rules

from sister merry hellish at inside out and backwards

it seems that the raw power of my writing (and by raw power, i just mean raw, as in uncultivated) isn’t enough for me to earn these awards. there are rules. i’m pretty sure we all know how i feel about rules, but i’m willing to suck up and play along, because in this case i happen to respect the proverbial man.

to a point.

three awards means three sets of rules and i sure as shit can’t keep them all straight. there was something about listing things you don’t know about me, answering a set of questions and pimping out other bodacious bloggers.

so you’ll get what i give. (in other words i want to pick and choose which ones i do.)

If you blog anonymously, are you happy doing this? If you aren’t anonymous, do you wish you’d started out anonymously, so that you could be anonymous now?

yes, i’m anonymous for the most part. despite the title of this post, my mother should never see this blog. she’d spend the rest of her days crying. and criticizing me like she’s so wont to do:

“karen johnson is always friendly and smiling. why don’t you smile more?”
“what do you call that color in your dining room? that’s um different.”
“john and i don’t eat fatty foods like that.”
“don’t you feel exposed without any window treatments?”
“you spent how much on dinner? you’re just going to shit it out the next day.” 
“why don’t you dress more feminine like claire mcdonnell?”

Describe an incident that shows your inner stubborn side. 

so ma, you want me to dress better? how’s this “too drunk to fuck” dead kennedys tshirt? i think it’s stellar.

What do you see when you really look at yourself in the mirror?

my mother. now get me a fucking sledgehammer.

Is there something that you still want to accomplish in life?

i want to grow an emotional on/off switch so i can assimilate in the world of fucking robots aka corporate america. or else, i want to work for someecards.

If you had the choice to sit down and read a book or talk on the phone, which would you do and why?

email or read blogs. my A.D.D. makes reading books hard. unless they’re mini books, which i collect just for this reason. (chalk up one thing you didn’t know about me). 

or unless it’s this book by elly which is about to be picked up by a publisher any second. when you read the first chapter, you’ll know why–you won’t be able to take your eyes off the screen.  

and no way do i want to talk on the phone. talking on the phone reminds me of my mother.   

another thing you didn’t know about me is that i like my betty crocker cheesy scalloped potatoes cooked 10 minutes extra so that they are plenty tender and a layer of crispy brown cheese forms on the top and sides of the casserole dish.   

i recently discovered this sauce at the local vietnamese restuarant. it’s my new fave:   

introducing my new line of valentine’s day cards: “voices in my head.”

i made them over at someecards because i don’t have a graphics designer and they give you these crazy ez templates to use.

if you happen to like any of them, you can vote for individual cards by clicking on the image or vote for all of them by clicking here. (if i get lots of votes, maybe i’ll win the editor’s pick, and then maybe they’ll want to hire me. a girl can dream big can’t she?)

happy valentine’s week punkers! xo♥xo♥xo♥

since the holidays bring out the irreverent in me, i made a movie for y’all. 

mama always told me i could return panties, but she never mentioned that it wasn’t easy.

a lot of cool people i know are participating in NaBloPoMo or NaNoWriMo. i don’t have time to do anything this involved because i’m participating in NaNuNaNu every day at the office. to give you an idea of who actually gets shit done around here, i present you my boss’s itinerary yesterday:

10:54 am: arrives for a “day of work.” mentions the train was running late.

11:02 am: logs into corporate network via hunt and peck typing.

11:05 am: grabs coffee and stale halloween cupcake with frosting botched from either the coworker’s commute or poor sense of frosting aesthetic and proportion.

11:10 am: eats cupcake and licks fingers with smacking noise despite the insufficient frosting.

11:18 am: heads outside to chase coffee and cupcake with a parliament light.

11:33 am: reads some emails. calls the admin into her office. “how do i add this to my calendar”?

11:58 pm: begins reading abcnews.com. watches video on pre-election results.

12:42 pm: takes a break from the news with a parliament light.

1:03 pm: microwaves lean cuisine four cheese pizza. checks out the WSJ in the kitchen while waiting.

1:05:30 pm: closes office door, eats pizza, and takes call from son at college. doesn’t bother to learn how to change her loud, egregious ringtone to vibrate.

1:41 pm: aids digestion by having a parliament light.

2:02 pm: writes some shit (son’s late term paper).

3:02 pm: that was a lot work. now jonesing . . . parliament light.

3:11 pm: craps all over my idea to do an email campaign and workplace posters promoting the smoking cessation program in light of the great american smokeout on november 18.

3:15 pm: musters up a better idea to have me do a campaign around the employee health assessment instead.

3:24 pm: researches trip to boston, decides to stay at boutique hotel in beacon hill.

3:54 pm: celebrates score on the hotel res with a parliament light.

4:10 pm: arrives 10 minutes late to a meeting and makes group repeat content discussed before she arrived.

5:00 pm: rides elevator back from meeting with me. “i’ll be out on thursday and friday; we’re going to boston for the weekend.”

most days she makes me feel like this.

typical corporate gumpy swag put to good use in this post

can’t wait to get this party started today.

shazbot!

i’m pretty sure fucking oprah saw my post wherein i admitted to texting and driving because now the big o is trying to flog my punk ass with her distracted driving campaign. go ahead click the link so that you can see this shit for yourself and so the rest of this post will make sense to you.

she’s got like 50 zazillion fucktards signing her no phone zone pledge just so she can grab their data and send them oprah empire promo emails. like subscribe to my douchey magazine or watch the show today because i’ll be talking to tom cruise about rumors that he’s gay and katie and nicole are just his contracted beards. he will be velcroed to the couch this time.

i’m fucking pissed oprah. do you hear me? don’t steal my motherfucking ideas and oprahize them. i was trying to work on my little problem with the help of my blogosphere friends and then you go and sick your fat-ass followers on me with your stupid public service campaign.

do you ever even fucking drive yourself? huh, do you, oprah? i didn’t fucking think so.

and why does your pledge instruct people to choose just one thing? color me hillbilly but what if i choose: “i will not text while i am driving”? will i still be able to talk or internet on my phone while driving? what. a. stupid. pledge.  i’ll take that *out*, TYVM.

i’m not going to take oprah’s shit while lying down.  there are a ton of distracting things that people do while driving, so i’m creating my own little pledging campaign:

patty punker’s no dick/twat-wads zone

and all 10 of my followers are going to sign it. so put that in your diet shake and down it, oprah.  oh, wait, looks like you’re not diet-shaking these days.

so punkers, let’s set motherfucking oprah straight. complete the pledge:

yeah i know, the word “don’t” is a big negative. but in this case it’s necessary. in order for me, and it’s all about me, to have a positive experience at a group fitness class (spin, yoga, strength, boxing, cardio, pilates, tennis drills) these 10 rules must be followed:

1. don’t hoot and holla like you’re having an O. no yelling out Wooooh. Yeaaaahh. Owwwww. there is nothing orgasmic about this. this is agony. the high associated with working out doesn’t come until later. when it’s over. then we can relax and let go.

2. don’t come into class smelling ripe. what the fuck are you going to smell like over the next hour if you smell like a sweaty locker room mat at the onset? it’s much easier to tolerate your hoagie smell once i’ve been pushing it and my own soft gardenia-like aroma begins to turn a little onion-y. a little onion-y. as in barely noticeable. only discernible by me.

3. don’t deviate from what the instructor is doing. i’m not that coordinated. i can barely keep up with the moves as it is and your improvisation is throwing my ass off.  if you can’t conform, don’t do a group class. quit trying to stand out. attention whore.

4. don’t bring all kinds of gear. isn’t it commitment enough that i get my ass here and spend $180.9 bajilliion per year on membership and classes? then you come waltzing in with your high tech heart monitor, gloves, spin shoes and seat cover, wrist wrap, and designer gym bag. that’s too much commitment. i would clearly jinx myself with an injury the second i spent a penny more on this shit.

5. don’t look too pretty. your hot little coordinated outfits and tennis dresses make me sick. i want to scream like sam kinison when i see you. i look like a swamp rat and you look like a gym rat. i don’t need this kind of intimidation when i don’t even want to be here in the first place. and don’t be wearing pretty pastel-y colors either. i have to wear dark colors so the sweat rings around my boobs don’t show. don’t your boobs sweat? bitch.

6. don’t be fist pumping. i don’t care how energized you are. this ain’t no party. this ain’t no disco. this ain’t no club at the jersey shore.  ’nuff said.

7. don’t respond to the teacher audibly as if you’re trying to impress me. when the instructor says, “it gets easier the more you do it,” don’t respond, “yeah if you never increase your weights,” then look at me to make sure i notice how much weight you’re lifting. i’m fucking focused here. focused on getting it over with! and when the teacher asks if we’re all feeling great, don’t say, “like a rock star,” then look at me to see if i think you’re funny.  i can barely breathe so i sure as shit don’t have enough oxygen to laugh. even if you are funny. but you’re not.

8. don’t save spaces or bikes for your posse. i like to be in the back of class. i like to minimize the number of  people who can observe my lack of ability. if your clique wants to be in the back, then they need to get their asses there before me.  or, to the front with the attention whores!

9. don’t be a badass. here i was thinking i was all cool by going to the gym then you come swaggering in with your gangsta bandanna, gnarly tank top and ink looking all tight and rad. thanks motherfucker. my inner badass dial just dropped to dowdy. and dowdy makes me want to run and hide out of sight until i can step back out right.

10. don’t zumba. ok this rule is just for me. even i have to have rules. and if i don’t zumba then you can all remain upright and moving.  my lack of coordination won’t cause me to spin in the wrong direction and flail about until i collide with you and take your ass down. see, i’m a considerate gym-goer, too.

what are your cardinal rules of group fitness class?

one of the reasons i wanted health care reform to pass was because i happen to have a few pre-existing conditions and wouldn’t be able to get health insurance on my own at a cost anywhere less than $50k per year. so i have to work for the sluggish corporatey goliaths lead by douchey ex-student body presidents, mean girls all grown-up, type A blowhards, spotlight whores, and mirror gazers.

but what the insurance companies don’t understand is that I really don’t have any physical conditions at all.

i just hurt in weird places.

see, life’s emotional shit manifests itself in my body physical. this is evidence-based medical science people and has been proven in double blind placebo-controlled clinical trials. or something like that.

all I know is the emotional-physical connection is undeniable. and I think the name for it is referred pain. or something like that.

how do I know this? because once the emotional factor is removed from my life, my condition goes into remission and I no longer need expensive health care services like specialist visits, MRIs, ultrasounds, or surgeries that end in ectomy or scopy.

The diagram below shows the type of chronic health conditions the insurance companies think I have that make me an expensive risk, and the actual causes and treatments:

now isn’t it obvious just how silly those insurance companies’ medical underwriting systems are? i might have a few flaws here and there, but they can all be fixed for next to nothing.

(but if the insurance companies want to continue to pay for my recreational drugs, that would be super awesome. i’d be willing to pay a little more in premiums for the convenience.)

so my husband discovered my blog yesterday. he knew i had a blog. it was no secret. but he never expressed any interest in reading it. then he decided to. and boy was he pissed. pissed out of his ever-loving mind. especially with the posts related to my dirty little secret (aka my one true love).

i tried to tell him that i was attempting to emulate similar posts from some of the female bloggers I worship wherein they talked about celebrity crushes. like this one from mommy wants vodka or this one from chrissy.

i tried to explain that this was a humor blog, complete fiction and utter rubbish. he said it wasn’t fucking funny. not one bit. obviously my post read nothing like the posts of those who I tried to mimic. because i suck like a fucking roto rooter sewer line cleaner. i suck shit and i failed to accomplish anything even remotely close to humor.

i don’t know why anyone would take the stuff i write here seriously, unless i consider how poorly it is written and how it fails to convey the desired tone. i pull most of this shit from my ass. (we all say we can’t pull stuff from our ass, but we can! try it sometime. it’s actually fun.) but really this is a bunch of crapola. hugely deficient of anything meaningful. it’s just an outlet for all of the bizarre shit i’ve been storing in my ass.

but he did take it real serious and he said it was hurtful and mean. woooooooooooooo. flashing lights. feeling faint. sick to my stomach. the last thing i ever would have wanted to do with this stupid diversion is to be hurtful. for that i am extremely sorry. so sorry.  the more i think about what a douche i am, the more i understand why my husband or anyone would hate me.

my entire life i have managed to show a lack of good judgement and to be completely inappropriate. not to mention full of social anxiety and awkwardness. as a friend of mine described, i am painfully shy but radically exhibitionist. in other words, i’m a complete assbag.  i don’t bring any soundness or grace to anything. i’m a bull in a china shop. anytime i’m surrounded by something pleasant and good, i’ll charge it with with my horns, buck and kick all over the place, and fuck it the fuck up.  yep, that’s me.

so if this blog becomes a blogumentary about my divorce proceedings, you’ll know why. and because i “publically” hurt my husband, i felt the need to publically apologize. yes, i did try to apologize in person, too, but it didn’t go over very well.

but i am glad i have this blog to be able to write this shit out of my system. otherwise, i’d be constipated for at least a week over this particular mess.

if you’ve been reading my blog the last couple days, you know all about the intrigue surrounding me and my one true love (OTL). if you haven’t been following, def catch up because tensions and pheromones are mounting. 

so you might remember the other girl, evil meghan, who also thinks my OTL is smitten with her. she is always the first to weigh in whenever he has a new post. i don’t know why she is so obsessed with him, the two of them aren’t going anywhere. 

anyfreeze, since evil meghan is the antithesis of me, i.e., dark, brooding, exotic, and gothy, i thought i’d put it to a vote. this should be easy for you because you can tell just about everything you need to know from an avatar. 

evil meghan

sweet me