Here's another tip on what not to do to an unemployed/underemployed friend.

We'll run a hypothetical and role play. I'll be me. You'll be one of my friends. 

Let's say you are married to a man who makes a lot of money. You have not worked in almost 15 years and spend your days at country clubs (plural), spas, salons, with your personal trainers (also plural) and shopping. You live in a mansion overlooking an ocean. Your children go to private schools. You take several vacations a year to places featured in Traveler magazine.

You are embarking on another of your extended vacations, 10 weeks in some of the more exotic locations you've been meaning to visit or revisit. You have a decent camera but are in the market for something a little more professional because you want to see if you have a flair for photography and this vacation seems like the perfect time to explore the option of becoming a fine art photographer. The kids are getting older and you think you want to "do something" that's "fun," not a real job, like in an office and with stress and stuff, one of those dream jobs.  (Heavens no, not a real job, I mean, really, use your 7 years of college and grad school education for their intended purpose?! Pluheez. How gauche.) And you certainly do not want to do anything that would require you to return to a classroom. (You do not have time for that. You have your spring fling dance committee at club one, the holiday silent auction committee at club two, your sessions at the gym, your shopping...and you have to take the kids to all their activities...you do not have time for school.) You're not particularly creative and are known to wear a lot of navy and khaki because you have a horrible eye for color. You had an interior decorator choose and purchase almost every item in your 6,800 square foot home, including paintings and photographs, because you "can't be bothered with trying to figure 'all that' out."  But for reasons known only to you, you now think it would be fun to be a fine art photographer. Your friend used to spend a lot of time in darkrooms that smelled funny and were lit with a red light, and you never understood how she could tolerate it. But now that everything's digital, no more smelly darkrooms and the whole photography thing is a lot more attractive to you. And so, you need to buy the very best camera and lenses money can buy. But you know absolutely nothing about cameras or photography. Lucky for you, you have a friend who has been using cameras and taking photographs and until a couple years ago was advancing through a career as a creative professional. This friend is super savvy with all those computer programs for photos, too. She's handy with a computer, too. Which is good, because you want a new one of those.

You ask your friend (me) to compile a list of everything you'll need to be a fine art photographer. Spare no expense, just make a list of everything fine art photographers use.

For some reason, your friend gagged a little when you asked her to do this. Her allergies must be acting up again.

Your friend (me) who is not married, unemployed, gone through all of her savings and 401K and squatting in her home until the sheriff comes to kick her out,  has nothing better to do with her time than compile a list of everything a fine art photographer needs, and this will give her a little project. It will help her feel viable and needed. (You are so thoughtful and altruistic!)

A couple days later your friend emailed you the requested list. She was so thoughtful, she even included links to sources where you can get a good deal on some of the items.

But you're not going to bother with the internet, that's too slow! You want to buy the stuff and have it right then so you can embark on your fine art photography career that very day!

So you take the list to the local camera store. Lucky for you, you live in a nice town that caters to wealthy people and there is still a store dedicated to cameras. You browse through the store and locate the camera and lenses your friend suggested. And it's on sale. $1,900??? That's all? That can't be right. There are much more expensive cameras in the store, and many more types of lenses than your friend suggested. Oh no, this will not do at all. You talk to the guy working there and he concurs with your friend's suggestion. Hmmmm. Maybe....but...why is this camera so much less expensive? Why is it on sale? No, this doesn't feel right. Midway through the conversation, the shop owner appears. The guy working there relays your intended uses for a camera. The owner steers you over to another area of the shop. There are lots of lenses only a couple camera bodies. The camera bodies alone are $6,999. Yes, this is more like it. A fine art photographer must have expensive equipment. You feel more comfortable with that equipment, so you take the camera shop owner's advice. After all he owns a camera shop. Your friend only uses cameras. (A few days later you return to pick up another little item the shop owner showed you - an underwater camera because you booked a few SCUBA dives during your stay in Fiji. You were just going to get a watertight case for the camera you purchased, but after thinking about it, you decided you want to have a camera dedicated to SCUBA and snorkeling.)

Next stop: Computer store. You go in ask to see the computer on the list. Your friend suggested a 15" laptop, but the kid who works at the store learns that you're a fine art photographer and insists you need a 17" with an additional You spend $7,000 on the laptop and a 27" display for home use, when you'll really do a lot of photo editing.

You get home and don't have a clue how to use your new computer. 34 phone calls to your friend later, you're able to turn on your laptop and go online. Yay! Time to buy software! You don't know what is actually in a creative suite, but it sounds cool and the images on the website are super cool, so instead of taking advantage of the inexpensive one-month-at-a-time option for PhotoShop as your friend suggested, you buy the entire Creative Suite, Master edition. $2,599. You probably won't need all of it, but it'll be nice to have it in case you do. You're going to be a fine art photographer, after all. And this stuff can't be that complicated, right? I mean, your friend is clever but she's not that clever, and she learned how to use all of it. You'll invite her to stay with you a few days and have her teach it to you. Done and done! You're in business, now! Nothing left to do except pack for that 10 week vacation!

Oh wait! Your friend's birthday is right around the corner! Better send her a gift! How about a necklace from that boutique in town! That'll be a nice treat! Oh, and throw in some of those Twizzlers she loves! She seems so down lately. That'll cheer her up!

You need a box to send the Twizzlers and necklace. Hmmmmm, well, let's see, there are a ton of boxes over in the corner from your shopping trip to the camera store, use one of those! You wrap the Twizzlers and necklace into the box your underwater camera came in. Perfect! She likes photography and she loves to snorkel and fish and all that. She'll love the box!

Your friend receives the box from you. She gets all warm and fuzzy when it arrives. "Oh, even with all she has going on she remembered my birthday. That's so thoughtful of her." She tears open the outer layer of wrapping and sees the pristine new underwater camera box. She's reasonably certain there's not an underwater camera in the box, that would be an uncharacteristically lavish gift. But. She didn't know you bought an underwater camera along with all your other gear, so she's a little surprised to see that box. She digs into the box and finds Twizzlers and a necklace. She thinks that's very nice. She likes Twizzlers. She likes necklaces. Happy birthday.

Her condo is barren, just a bed, a desk and a couch remain because your friend is waiting for the bank to finalize the foreclosure and evict her. The underwater camera box looks oddly out of place, the room looks like someone bought a new underwater camera and deserted the place, taking everything except the large furniture with them. This amuses your friend. But then that box and all it stands for starts to fester. And though she doesn't resent you or your husband's money, it does occur to her that it was a little insensitive of you to send a package of Twizzlers and a necklace in a box that contained something she has long wanted.

The afternoon turns to evening, your friend occasionally glances up from her laptop, giving her eyes a break from reading dismal job descriptions. The box looms in the corner, and as the dusk turns to night and moonlight and the glow of the laptop screen illuminate the Spartan room, the underwater camera box anthropomorphizes into a snobby mean girl bully, taunting your friend about her inability to find a job, keep her home, go on vacations and own an underwater camera of her own. She imagines that the taunting box would speak in your voice with an underwater sound effect, "I asked you for advice and ignored it, and I bought two new very expensive cameras! You like cameras and photography! Here! You can have one of the boxes to play with!"




Your friend knows she's being immature and silly and envious and that she needs to get over it. But. Still. It was kind of callous to use that particular box to send a birthday gift of a package of Twizzlers and a necklace to a friend who's unemployed and soon to be homeless. It is flaunting your wealth and possessions at her. Even if she had a job it would be a little, well, tacky, so send a gift in a box that contained a very expensive item you just bought for yourself.

That night your friend dreams she's SCUBA diving. The sealife is stunning, the colors are new colors, colors she's never seen, and in her dream she is slack jawed with awe and wonder wishing she had a camera to record all that she's seeing. The camera box floats into into view. It's wearing a SCUBA tank and mask. Your friend has a lucid dream moment and laughs at the psychology of the visual in her dream. She drops back into a deeper sleep and the dream continues, but turns from pleasant and beautiful to scary and dark. She's running out of air in her SCUBA tank and is trying to surface but something's holding her feet, or her feet are stuck, or she's paralyzed...whatever the reason, she can't move her feet and propel herself to the surface. She's gasping for air and looks up at the surface just out of reach, and a family of underwater camera boxes floats by, two large and two small, all wearing snorkeling gear. In her dream, you friend tries to get their attention, waving and screaming underwater, but the camera box family doesn't hear her. They just snorkel overhead as if she doesn't exist.

Yeah. I know. This might be a bit of an overreaction. And someone, your friend, perhaps, might want to consider some counseling.

But.

While there's no shame in being wealthy, and you shouldn't feel guilty or embarrassed about your financial success, don't flaunt your swutting wealth in front of your unemployed or underemployed friends. They're happy for you, truly they are, and they're not jealous of you. But. They feel like crap and doubt that they're ever going to live any kind of a life worth living and struggle, daily, to find convince themselves there are reasons to not kill themselves. Go, do what you want to do, enjoy your life and your money, but use a little sensitivity when showing off your possessions to your impoverished friends.

I was in a grocery store a couple days ago. A friend was taking an inordinate amount of time choosing which type of agave nectar is the best alternative sweetener. So I noticed the muzak more than I usually do. They were playing a 70s Somnambulistic mix. England Dan and John Ford Coley. Seals and Crofts. Bread. Atlanta Rhythm Section. Man there was a lot of crap music in the '70s. The question of the ages: Does music reflect the culture of the day, or does culture reflect the music of the day?

Do you wanna make love? Or do you just wanna fool around?

Yeah. I hadn't heard that one in a long time, either.

But it brought me to a startling realization: I'm pretty sure no one under the age of 50 makes love anymore.

They hook up. They bang or get banged. They boff, bonk, bone or get boned. (At least I think they're still bonking and boffing, it seems like I've heard about boffing and bonking in the past five years.) They tap that. They get busy, they get it on and they get laid. Or they merely get some. For a while in the '90s they knocked boots. (Does anyone knock boots anymore? Or do the nasty, the wild thing or get a freak on? Can you tell it's been a while since I've been out in the sexual vernacular world?) Occasionally, mostly after marriage, they have sex.

I think mostly people just do "it."

But, very few people under the age of 50 are making love.

And it occurs to me that no one has made love since maybe the early '90s. Huh.

I mean, everybody should be makin' love...
Come on, how many guys you know make love?

 The Will Ferrell and Rachel Dratch SNL skits, The Lovers', in the early '00s were a clear message to "the making love" generation that their sexual vernacular was so antiquated that it's parody-worthy. For any younger hold outs still using the terms lover and making love, those skits were the death knell.
"Just say it! Lover."


I suppose there are people, of a certain age (if you quit watching SNL when Bill Murray left you're of that age) who still make love. I came of sexual age after the making love hey-day. My parents came before it so they never referred to sex as making love, and they weren't lovers. They were married. The rest was implied and didn't need a label. Or discussion. So the only time I heard the terms lover and making love were on television re-runs, in movies and in the occasional song.

I was a naive kid. When I heard the term lover on television or in movies I wasn't aware enough to understand that lover meant anything other than boyfriend/girlfriend. And I was completely in the dark about what making love entailed.

That is until an older boy on the playground at recess chased me up the slide and kissed me. I presumed that meant we were boyfriend and girlfriend, hence, in love, hence, lovers, and that we made love. I was 7 and very uncomfortable with all of that. I liked the boy well enough, he lived in the neighborhood, was a winger on his hockey team and rode a cool bike. A girl could do a lot worse. But. I was 7. And not ready for a serious relationship. I knew my parents would not approve. And I was mad that he kissed me without asking first, or without any warning whatsoever. One minute we were playing tag with a bunch of kids, the next minute he was sticking his mouth on my mouth and then he slid down the slide away from me to return to the game of tag as if nothing happened. Even at the age of 7 I knew I didn't like feeling like a conquest. I'm sure there's a lot of psychology in all of that.

The rest of the afternoon I fretted over the whole thing. Kiss = love = boyfriend = lover. I liked the kid but I barely knew him. I was pretty certain I didn't love him. What would I tell my parents? My sister dated a lot of boys, but she was a lot older. My parents made her wait until she was 16 to go on dates and that was a source of contention from age 14 - 16 between my sister and parents. They would never go for me having a lover at age 7.

I kept the secret for several days. I clandestinely looked up "lover" and "making love" in our encyclopedias and dictionaries and didn't gain much enlightenment - it only made me more anxious and confused about what happened on that slide and what the ramifications were. I slept fitfully and found it difficult to enjoy my toys and books. Friday night rolled around and my brother was going out with his girlfriend. Trying to act all mature and worldly - because now, with a full contact kiss under my belt, I was a woman of the world - as he prepped for his date I said, "Getting ready for a night out with your lover, I see."

Needless to say my 17 year old brother a) cracked up and then b) schooled me on the fact that 7 year old girls should not throw around the term lover. I was obviously confused. I explained my confusion, and he cleared it up for me. Well, not all of it. He mainly cleared up the fact that not all girlfriends/boyfriends are lovers, and that a kiss does not constitute making love. To this day the relief I felt at that moment remains one of the best feelings I've ever felt. "Whew" does not even begin to cover it.

Take the L out of lover and it's over.

And ever since then I have hated the terms making love and lover. Too ambiguous and silly for my taste. And they are rarely used in the confines of a relationship where there is actually love.

Years (and years) ago I went out with a guy a few times. We had a few drinks and got to talking about mutual friends. He mentioned that one of our friends was "bad in bed." He knew this because, he said casually, she was one of his lovers. Guys, whatever you call it, hooking up, fuck buddying, do not mention that you do this with a friend of the woman with whom you are on a date. I mean, if you want to see her again, anyway. I considered it fair warning. I do not like kissing and telling. I don't do it and I don't like to hear other people kissing and telling. Apart from erotic fiction, I don't want to know about the sexual experiences - good or bad - of real life people. And the fact that this guy so readily divulged his take on our friend's sexual prowess, or lack thereof, told me all I needed to know about him: Jerk.

My friends sometimes go into details about their husbands', um, proclivities and I don't like it. It doesn't embarrass me or titillate me. It just makes it weird the next time I see their husbands. They don't know I know they have developed an interest in rim jobs or that they've become two pump chumps. They think I think they're just nice guys who like to play Scrabble, barbecue on weekends and want to take up geocaching. I truly wish that was the extent of my knowledge about them. But thanks to the sexual revolution and Sex in the City, us gals apparently feel a duty to share the intimate details of our intimate lives with our friends. To me, especially in a marriage, sharing bedroom (or kitchen counter) details with people outside of that relationship is a betrayal. If the men know their wives/partners are blabbing details of their sex life to their friends that's not a betrayal, I guess, but...even if the partner is okay with the broadcasting of their sex life, is it necessary? If there are issues, concerns, then sure, a trained professional's ear can be helpful. But trust me, I am not a trained professional and I do not have helpful advice for my friends' issues with their husbands' sexual prowess or lack thereof.

Anyway. That's a blog for another day.

To me, the terms lover and making love evoke images of heavily mustached men in soft focus, silhouetted against a very orange sunset-lit sky, whispering through their mustache, "Hey baby, do you wanna make love?" Or, alternately, a woman in full '70s garb, with concern and escalated imploring emotion, saying to her husband that they never make love. Or, that same woman, complaining to other women about the lack of love making in her marriage and the need to take a lover.


And let's talk about that. Lover. When was the last time you heard anyone refer to their sexual partner as their lover? Gratefully, that trend seems to have finally waned. I never heard it roll off the tongue naturally. At least not in real life. Occasionally in movies and music the singer or actor pulled it off without the weird affectation that usually accompanies it in real life. Whenever I've heard anyone say it in real life it either comes off jokey, a la Will Ferrell and Rachel Dratch, or pervy, a la some deranged psychopath rapist. Needless to say, hearing a man say it has never put me in the mood for it.

Back when the terms were en vogue, people made love with their lovers. They may or may not have been in love. My guess is usually not. So it's probably good that we're enlightened and straightforward in our terminology, now. The people who used to be called lovers are now fuck buddies.

Even though I am old school about the implications of the terms, it's probably healthier, emotionally, for people to call it what it is: justsex. A hook up, a fuck buddy, a one night stand. Nothing more. Especially for women with Cinderella fantasies. These women cling to the notion that one true loves' kiss will change their lives and they'll live happily ever after with their handsome prince. Oh yes, these women exist. And they have extremely romantic notions of love and sex. So for these women it's good that the terms lover and making love are no longer in circulation. If a guy called them their lover, they'd go all gooey and melty and think love is actually a factor in the relationship, when in fact they are merely fuck buddies. Hooking up, fuck buddying...the terms remove all doubt and prevent delusion. This is justsex. Nothing more. No making love, not lovers, just having sex. It's a nice implied disclaimer for anyone who wants sex but not a relationship. "This is just a hook up." "We're just fuck buddies." "Yeah, I tapped that once." "I did her." "I juiced him." These are not terms of endearment and the fine print is clear: This is justsex. Nothing more. Everyone's on the same page. 

To my ear, the terms fuck buddies and hooking up seem derogatory. But. To the generations behind me they're normal terms. "We hooked up a couple times but we're not dating" is a normal statement made by regular people who are very aware and open with their sexuality. They hold no pretense or ambition or longing for something more. It was justsex. And people have been having justsex since our species crawled out of the primordial ooze. This is nothing new. But the public attitude about it seems to have finally reached the private attitude about it. Some dating sites and the personals area of the classifieds have sections titled things like, "Intimate Encounters." This is apart from the usual dating sections and includes options for people to be very specific about what they're looking for in an intimate encounter. Its justsex but it's not just sex. Among many (and I mean many) preference choices, people can specify exactly what and who they wan for justsex. Among the tamer choices, men can specify whether they want women shaved or unshaved, and women can select cut or uncut, both can choose between rubber and vinyl and Astroglide and Liquid Silk. Those are just to get the, uh, ball rolling. As you progress down the list, the choices become more sexually specific. If you're using these sites to meet sexual partners it's implied that you're not looking for love, you're looking for justsex, a hook up, a fuck buddy. And that's great - consenting adults, open and honest about their desires and intentions...s'all good. Do you wanna make love? Or do you just wanna fool around? The latter, please.

Except what about the people (and I think there might be a few remaining) who are, you know, actually in love?


What are the terms for people who are in a relationship/dating/in love? My married friends refer to it as having sex or doing it. Or refer to a specific act or acts. Blow jobs, hand jobs, rim jobs, beef jobs, bum jobs, Z-jobs...when did sex become work (outside of prostitution)? People say marriage is work, and apparently that's true because almost every sex act my married friends talk about is some kind of job. Their husbands are getting weirdly specific in their sexual desires and my friends are obliging because they're worried about the attractive young women in their husbands' offices. My friends feel a need to up their game to prove to their husbands they are still sexually relevant and worthy. They are devouring 50 Shades of Grey, not for the erotica titillation aspects, but to pick up some tips and ideas to try with their husbands*.

Yeah, I dunno. Whatever. Good thing I'm not married. I can't afford the implements and maintenance. (waxing and laser hair removal alone would bankrupt anyone who earns less than six figures). And even though I have a pretty active imagination and a lot of natural curiosity and not much inhibition, I don't want to think of sex as a job or that I have to prove my sexual self to anyone, least of all a husband. Hmmph. (These are the conversations I have with myself in the middle of the night, pep talks to convince myself that really, I'm better off single.) And while I'm always up for trying something new, if everyone is reading 50 Shades of Grey for ideas, then everyone is doing the same things, and then they're not really new ideas. To say nothing of the fact that I am of the opinion that when it comes to getting off, everything has been tried at some point in the history of our species. There's a whip for every kink.

I think there needs to be a term, though, to distinguish justsex and sex between people who are actually in love and dating each other or married. Making love and lover...blech. Will Ferrell and Rachel Dratch killed any lingering attachment to those terms.

Maybe that's why my friends are so specific about what they're doing with (and to) their husbands. There's no good catch-all term for sex inside the confines of a committed relationship. And that's what I find interesting in all of this. Look at all the slang for sex. Most of it is banal and not anything most of us would use in conjunction with someone we respect and love. With a couple drinks and in the confines of a trusting relationship, I can be a nasty girl now and again, but, I don't want to refer to sex with someone I love as "doing the nasty." There's nothing nasty about sex between two people who are in love. They might get their freak on, but it's more than a hook up, it's more than justsex, and degrading it to the terms used for justsex demeans the relationship.

But. Still. There's not a good term that distinguishes loving sex from justsex. Telling societal indicator or just a lingering reaction to the sexual revolution? The terms that used to be shocking are jokey, now. ("We can have sex whenever we want, with whomever we want, however we want it! And we're going to flaunt this fact in...someone's...face by coming up with derogatory slang!") Maybe it's just me, maybe I'm jaded (okay, of course I'm jaded) but as much as I applaud the open honesty of justsex slang, there's something really empty about it. Not the emptiness of meaningless sex, nothing new there, but the emptiness of the acceptance of derogatory slang is new. Sure, it stands to reason that when meaningless sex is the accepted norm, the slang for what is no longer naughty will naturally become irrelevant. It's perfectly acceptable for a guy to say he banged the shit out of some girl last night. A few grandmothers might bat an eye and flash an disapproving scowl, but not because of the act, only because of the disrespect toward the woman, and hence women in general. Hearing the term, "banging the shit" doesn't shock anyone. Or, very few people. Because the presumption is that if you're not married or in a relationship you're having justsex all over the place, banging the shit out of nameless women or getting the shit banged out of us by nameless men. Since that's the presumption, the behavior is accepted, and the taboo is gone, the terms for it no longer need to be euphemistic or cloaked in street slang.

We don't need slang for justsex anymore. Ironically, we need slang for romantic sex.


*Customers who bought 50 Shades of Gray also bought Lesbian Strap-On Role Play: 10 Lesbians Share Their Favorite Strap-On Role Play Experience by Jennifer Power. They also bought, oddly, I think, Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins. I read the Hunger Games trilogy, enjoyed it, and find zero correlation between Hunger Games and 50 Shades of Grey other than the main character is female. Katniss is a young girl living in an oppressive era in an oppressive region under an oppressive government where life is hard and food is scarce. She is forced into situations that force her to make life and death choices she would never consider were she not, well, forced into it. Anastasia is a free-willed adult who, of her own volition, embarks on a sexual amusement park of an affair. Kinda weird that people are buying these two books or trilogies together. Maybe women are buying Hunger Games for their teens and while they're on Amazon they're throwing 50 Shades of Grey into the basket for themselves. Or maybe on Amazon Hunger Games is to 50 Shades of Grey as mints, paper towels, cans of mixed nuts, batteries, and a TV Guide is to condoms at Walgreen's. Decoy purchases to make yourself less noticeable. "Porn? What porn? Oh, that? That's a gift. Bachelorette party. I'm reading Hunger Games."

Sidebar, completely out of context, the term numnut came out of my mouth a few days ago. I presume I was temporarily possessed by the spirit of my father. The lawn service my mother uses has twice sent the same numnut to mow her lawn - the guy drove his huge lawnmower over a soggy area of yard, so soggy it was a mini-pond, but the numnut didn't mow around it, he barreled right through it and tore up the lawn in that area. Twice. He did this twice. Because he's a numnut. I like the term and will be bringing it back into vernacular. 

I just had a grueling interview. My credentials were scrutinized by HR, the department manager and a couple lateral managers on the team. Prior to the interview I was required to complete a Myers-Briggs personality assessment, an IQ test and a spelling/math test - a sort of mini-SAT. (Yes, really, however I wasn't surprised, I've encountered this a lot in my job hunt, I'm told it's the new en vogue HR screening tool.) I passed those tests and was asked go in for an interview. The interview lasted one hour and 15 minutes where said HR and managers threw rapid-fire questions at me. I was given several hypothetical situations to assess. Fortunately I was prepared and ready for everything they threw at me.

But.

As usual, I was informed that there is a lot of competition for this job. Many qualified candidates are being reviewed.

Nothing new there.

Except.

The job for which I have gone through heavy duty scrutiny and questioning is a temp assignment that will last five days. No more. If I am chosen for this temp assignment I will be temping for a temp. The temp has been temping this job for 2 years without a day off except for a few holidays. The only reason she's taking five days off now is because her twin sister is getting married. And it was made very - abundantly - clear to me that this temp assignment will not lead to any other assignments, temp or otherwise, because the company is quite happy with a staff comprised almost entirely of temps. And when a temp leaves, they have a cadre of temps to replace them. The only reason they're looking for a temp for this five day assignment is because the two backup temps are both filling in for temps who quit. 

Yeah.

The job market's improving.

I've had a lot of interviews. I've experienced situations that are never discussed in the job interview tips articles. I could write a book on real interview situations, some of the crazy (and illegal) stuff that goes down on the job hunt. Forget the ideal interview situations discussed in interview tips articles, if you are honest and experience enough to perform all the tasks required for the job, and you aren't creepy or flaky, and you've practiced answers to the questions most often asked at interviews, you are basically prepped for an "ideal" interview. And if you're lucky, you'll only have to endure "ideal" interviews. But for the rest of us who are in competitive fields where there have been tremendous downsizings over the past few years, well, most job interviews are less than ideal. I have a lot of experience to draw from in the ideal and not-so-ideal job interview realm, so apart from the, you know, "my entire existence is riding on this interview" anxiety, I go into interviews reasonably confident.

Apparently over confident.

Because I had a new experience that brought me down to earth. Literally.

I had an interview at a suburban outpost of a multinational corporation. You know the kind of place, sprawling generic faintly Bauhaus-istic post-modern architecture. Freakishly uniformly green and uniformly trimmed shrubbery, perfectly blossoming ground cover. Several pristine flags perfectly aligned and waving in a gentle breeze. Freshly tarred visitor's parking lot. Sidewalks all leading to one main entrance. Puffy clouds dotting a perfectly azure sky. I  thought, "You know, maybe working in the suburbs wouldn't be so awful. This seems like a nice place."

One second I was walking from the parking lot to the main entrance, thinking, "What a gorgeous day! What a great job opportunity! I studied the company info, I memorized the job description and have examples to illustrate how I'm qualified to do this job. I'm going to ace this interview and start working next week!" The next second I was splayed out on the sidewalk, my ankle, knee, hip, back, shoulder and head all vying for attention.

My existing foot and ankle issues have been getting progressively worse. I do balance exercises, but it's clear my foot and ankle issues are growing increasingly worse. If I'm walking for any distance or on uneven terrain I generally use a cane. I've had too many falls in the last couple years to let pride or vanity keep me from using a cane on longer distance jaunts. I still hate it, but, after suffering the aftermath of a couple bad falls with no health insurance, practicality wins over pride. Turns out, pride really does goeth before a fall, but it really goeths after a few falls.

But.

I never, ever use a cane when I go to job interviews. And I dose up on topical pain meds just prior to the interview in an effort to mask any sign of abnormal gait.

In the aftermath of my fall I  discerned that unfortunately, a badly protruding section of sidewalk combined with my inability to fully raise and flex my foot resulted in me catching my toe on the heaved edge of the sidewalk which resulting in me falling and landing splayed out across the sidewalk, over the curb and into the parking lot.

Because I was splayed over the curb, the upper half of my body was about 6" lower than the lower half. I was in pain from head to foot. I was like a turtle on its back. The bucolic splendor of the pristine office building now seemed like a sinister ruse, that everything good about this place was a cover for something evil.

Confirming that (albeit paranoid) concern was a maintenance guy trimming the shrubs. I know he saw me fall, or, at least saw me splayed out on the sidewalk, because while I was on the ground trying to stand up from where I landed when I fell, I saw him pause and look at me for a prolonged period of time, as if he was deciding if I was worth his effort. In the end he decided to make no attempt to help me and went back to work, ignoring me as I tried to rock and twist myself upright over the curb and onto the sidewalk.

I try really hard to force away thoughts like the ones that occurred to me, but sometimes, for a flicker of a moment, I allow myself a self-pitying moment. If I were 24, petite, blonde and hot, that guy would have been falling over himself to help me. It's a useless, stupid thought, and truly, I don't go around thinking thoughts like that. But. I've seen it played out too many times to pretend it's not true. I recently saw a middle-aged heavier-set woman slip and fall at Costco. The place was packed with Sunday afternoon shoppers. Many of them were young, able-bodied men, standing around bored, nothing better to do than help a fallen middle-aged heavier-set woman. When she fell, they all looked up from their smartphones, and took a look at her on the cement floor, but didn't make a move to help. The younger women didn't help her, either. An elderly couple and I were the only three people in the crowd who helped her. Meanwhile, about a month ago, a young, inebriated, petite blonde girl with what I believe were fake boobs, stumbled, slightly, at an outdoor patio restaurant, but caught herself on the Tiki bar. Men, young, old, and everything in-between, sprang up from their tables to help the poor, helpless drunk girl who almost fell. There were at least 10 men falling over themselves to help the poor girl who almost fell. I know it's just life, and of course it's not fair, and of course it speaks to a lot of social and anthropology issues, but it sucks. Young and/or pretty = help worthy, must save the shining specimen for future use in the gene pool. Not young and/or pretty = you're on your own, lie there writhing in pain until you die for all anyone cares.

Eventually I managed to get on my feet.

I was going into an interview so my main concern was if I looked presentable. I assessed the visual damage: Right palm scraped and bleeding. Right elbow of suit noticeably scraped/frayed. Shoes scuffed. My knee took the initial impact, and the worst looking damage: Knee of suit pants torn open, revealing bleeding knee.

My interview was scheduled to take place in 12 minutes. I had 12 minutes to figure out how to reassemble myself. I could probably strategically hide the scraped elbow of my suit, and maybe no one would notice my scuffed shoes, but there was no hiding my torn pants, bloody knee and palm.

And I'm not even going into the pain issues. Mind over matter. Interview on my mind, taking precedent over the matter of pain.

This is a first for me. Suffering physical injury at a job interview. 

Just when I thought I'd endured every possible scenario at a job interview, this happens.

And in all the articles and books I've read about job interviews, in all the video prep courses and discussions I've had, the subject of falling and ripping your clothes and sustaining bloody injuries while walking into a job interview has, strangely, never been broached.

So I had nothing to draw upon, no resource to tap. I was on my own and flying blind. And I had 12 minutes to figure out what to do.

1) Slink away. Call the person I'm interviewing with and apologize, say I've had an accident on the way to the interview and try to reschedule.

2) Go into the lobby, find a bathroom, try to clean myself up and explain to the interviewer what happened.

3) Call, cancel the interview, lie, say I've accepted another job, lick my wounds (literal wounds), and forget this ever happened.

Option 1 made the most sense to me. I scenarios of me extending a bloodied hand for an introduction handshake, me sitting in a conference room in a torn suit and oozing wounds, and me attempting to smile and conduct an interview as if nothing was wrong played out in my head. Option 2 is definitely a no-go.

As I gathered my purse and portfolio a woman leaned out the main entry door.

"Are you okay? I saw you fall from my window," she yelled, gesturing to the general area of the front of the building.

Oh crap. Someone saw me. Of course someone saw me. The building has windows for walls. Probably everyone sitting on that side of the building saw me. Well then. So much for slinking away unnoticed.

"Yeah, I think I'll be okay," I yelled, trying to convince myself as much as her.

A man appeared behind her in the entry door. He didn't say anything but started to make his way toward me. I thought he just happened to be walking to the parking lot.

I was wrong. He stopped about a yard in front of me, sizing up my torn suit and bloodied flesh wounds. He didn't say anything. I still thought he just happened to be walking to the parking lot.

The woman was still leaning out of the entry door, looking at us.

The man said, "You trip?"

No, I just walk around in a torn suit with exposed, bleeding wounds. Doesn't everyone?

Instead I did that polite thing most of us do when we've sustained an injury in an accident, affected an "oh silly me" tone and affably chuckled, "Yes, I guess I did! It happened so fast...I must have caught my toe or heel of my shoe on the sidewalk," gesturing toward the heaved concrete. 

He knelt down to have a look at the sidewalk. That's the first time I noticed he had some papers in his hand.

He surveyed the sidewalk closely, looked at me, and said, "We have some forms for you to sign."

I kid you not. Forms for me to sign.

The thought of, "Lawsuit!! Negligence!!" hadn't entered my mind. But now it did. Not that I would sue over something like this. And even, if I remotely thought about it, my pre-existing foot issues would lay at least half the blame on me, anyway. I was negligent by not using my cane to assist me due to my foot and ankle injuries and resulting balance issues.

But.

I didn't like how quick on the trigger this company was to dispense an accident investigation team, armed with some sort of papers for me to sign, most likely to waive rights to legal action against them.

Or maybe I was wrong, maybe he was from HR and figured I was there for the interview and he just happened to be carrying application forms when he heard the news about a woman falling in front of the building. I admonished myself for jumping to the worst conclusion.

"Forms?" I said, questioning politely.

"Standard waivers, releases."

So much for admonishing myself. Go ahead, think the worst. Because apparently this company, or this guy assumes the worst of me.

The interview remained omnipresent in my mind. I decided to ignore him - and his forms.

"I'm here for an interview, I need to call Jane Stevens and let her know I'm going to be late, or reschedule my appointment. Excuse me."

With my non-bleeding hand I fished my phone and the number of the interviewer out of my purse as a sign of dismissal to the guy with the release forms.

The form guy stood there watching me. The woman was still leaning out the main entry door. It was probably paranoia, but, I "felt" like lots of eyes were watching me through the window walls of the building.

I got the interviewer's voice mail. I left a message saying I had a little accident on the way to the interview, that I was running late or maybe we could reschedule. 

As I ended the call and slipped my phone back into my purse, I noticed another woman at the entry door. The guy with the forms said, "There's Jane."

Oh great. No slinking away to lick my wounds in solitude.

The form guy started toward the door. I didn't know what to do. I made a couple cautious steps and pain shot from my ankle up through my bleeding knee to my stinging hip and to my throbbing shoulder. It was probably 75 feet to the door but it seemed like 75 miles. On shards of glass.

The newly appeared woman, Jane, who I presumed was my interviewer, was now walking toward either the form guy or me. She stopped to talk to the form guy, and the had a brief exchange. Her gaze never left me.

So I thought, "What the heck, I'm obviously the topic of conversation, I might as well just limp on over there instead of standing here looking pathetic and paralyzed."

As soon as I started walking toward Jane and the form guy, Jane resumed a hasty pace toward me.

"Hi, I'm Jane Stevens." She smiled and offered me her hand to shake. I didn't want to offer her a bloody palm so I gave an apologetic glance at my hand, introduced myself, apologized for my appearance.

"I heard you fell. I'm sorry that happened. Come on in, you can use our ladies room to clean up. We can reschedule your interview, or, if you'd like we can talk in a few minutes."

I raced through the options and thought it would be weird to conduct a job interview under these circumstances. And there was a bigger issue nagging at me. The job I was there to interview for was a client-facing role and I knew they were appraising me not just for my qualifications, but also for my fitness to interact with clients. Behavior at the interview, a first meeting, is often seen as a mirror as to how a candidate will behave when meeting clients.

My mind was racing to figure out what the "right" thing to do would be if this were a client situation. If I'd been on my way to meet with a client, fell and injured myself in their parking lot 15 minutes before the meeting. I realized I haven't explored this topic before, either. And didn't recall reading or hearing about this sort of thing in relation to client meetings, either.

Note to self: I can't be the first person to ever fall in the parking lot on the way into a job interview or client meeting. Google this and figure out what the best "solution" is for this so I can have it in my artillery for the next time I trip and fall on the way to a job interview or client meeting.

But in the there and then I couldn't come up with the "best" solution. If I went along with the interview it would show selfless enthusiasm, can-do spirit, and focus in the face of disaster...but tarnishes the polish of the image. If I rescheduled, it would show concern for image, but disregard for others involved.

I did some quick reputation math and opted to go inside, clean up and go through with the interview.

The form guy and the original woman leaning out the main entry door were gone. It was just me and Jane. She led me, at a fast clip, into the lobby and key-carded me through a glass door and down a hall adjacent to a sprawling cube farm. My ankle and knee were throbbing and I could feel blood dripping down my leg from my wounded knee. I was struggling to keep up with her. She said she was taking me to a private bathroom, but any bathroom would have been okay, the closer the better.

We eventually made our way to what must have been the executive offices. She slid her key card through a reader on an inlaid wood door and, it was like arriving in Valhalla. Or a very swanky ladies lounge at a very swanky hotel. She held the door open long enough for me to enter and said she'd be right back with Band-aids and first aid cream. She reappeared shockingly fast, I'd barely made my way to the sink to wash my hands and assess the damage to the rest of me. She came over to the vanity and set down an industrial sized box of Band-Aids and a huge tube of antiseptic ointment, a small perfunctory first aid kit and a couple safety pins, then motioned to a reception desk and told me to talk to Joyce when I was ready. Then she left me alone to tend to my wounds.

My shoulder and hip weren't aching as badly. That was the one positive aspect. My wrist was swelling, my knee looked like something from a flesh eating zombie movie, and my ankle was swollen twice its normal size. I briefly pondered the difficulty of getting my shoe off that foot after the interview and forced the thought away. My leg and arm were already turning blue with welts and bruises, so many that it was difficult to find non-bruised areas. Great.

I checked out the first aid kit. Basic supplies, including iodine. Hmmmm. Iodine. I could end this all right here, right now. Open wounds. Severe iodine allergy. Bottle of iodine. One quick swipe of the iodine across my knee or palm and I could end this all, right here, right now, in this swanky ladies lounge in the suburbs. I thought about Jane finding me convulsing on the floor and decided I didn't need to do that to her. So I cleaned my knee and hand with hand soap, put the antiseptic cream on them, and began laying a patchwork of Band-Aids over the 3" diameter wound on my knee. I had Tylenol with me, but nothing to wash it down. I comforted myself with, "Later you can take the entire bottle and wash it down with vodka and end this misery once and for all." I stepped into a huge toilet stall, took off my pants, folded the torn edges and safety pinned the tear as tightly as I could with three safety pins on the inside so they wouldn't show. I returned to the swanky lounge and combed my hair, reapplied some lipstick, took several deep breaths, summoned all my reserves to pretend everything was normal. "You can deal with your injuries later, just pretend everything's normal for the duration of the interview. Rise above, Trill. Mind over matter."

Joyce and a couple other women huddled around the reception desk stopped their hushed conversation as soon as I appeared in the doorway. Great. I haven't even had the interview, yet, and I'm already the topic of office gossip.

The approach to the reception desk was paved with shiny, slippery tile. With my good ankle now swollen and screaming and pain, and my bad foot/ankle its usual unstable self, I had no solid footing and the inability to gain any traction on the slippery floor was only adding to the obstacle course this interview had become. I decided to manage this interview one task at a time, not think too far ahead. Right now, the task getting my full concentration was not falling on the slippery tile approach to the reception desk...while trying to look like I was walking normally. Mind over matter. Fine! Everything's fine! It's a beautiful day and I am feeling great! Enthusiastic! Friendly! Mind. Over. Swutting. Matter.

Other than the receptionist, the women evaporate. Joyce has one of those heavily spackled make-up jobs that hide all emotion. She smiles but the rest of her face doesn't move. Might be more than just make-up preventing her face from moving or showing any sign of emotion. She greets me with a hello, as if I had entered like anyone else, without bloodied and swollen limbs. Professional. This woman is a pro at this. Good for her. I like that in a receptionist. She can gossip all she wants, but when she greets people, which is her job, she should be void of any emotion other than delight at greeting whomever stands at her desk. In spite of the gossiping, I decide I like Joyce. Old school receptionisting is a dying art. I respect her obviously well-honed skills.

I return her smile and tell her I'm here to see Jane Stevens, she calls Jane and asks me to have a seat. I ponder this. If I sit down I may not be able to get back up again. I back away from the reception desk, getting out of Joyce's "space" and clearing the way for any other arrivals she may need to greet. As I ponder whether or not I can manage sitting down and getting back up again, Jane appears.

Okay, here we go! It's showtime!

"All cleaned up, I see?" Jane asks.

"Yes, thank you very much for the supplies."

"None to worse for wear, I hope?"

"Not too bad," I lie through what I hope is a sincere smile.

Jane walks along at a fast clip, leading me to a conference room. There are three people already seated and waiting for me. This I am prepared for. Never, ever assume that just because they don't tell you you'll be facing a group of people for an interview that it will be a one-on-one interview. I am not thrown by the extra people or the huge conference room environment. I am no stranger to conference rooms. I am comfortable in them. Even steaming hot conference rooms like this one. Oh Jane. Jane, Jane, Jane. That's one of the oldest tricks in the book. Turn up the thermostat in the room where the interview will take place. Child's play.

Jane makes the excuses for me to the assembled team.

"Trillian had a bit of a tumble on the way in today. She wants to continue with the interview as scheduled so we've got her cleaned up." Jane smiles somewhat ingratiatingly as she says this. It may be paranoia, again, but I get the distinct impression Jane would have preferred me to have left instead of soldiering on with the interview.

She has no idea who she's dealing with. She has zero clue that I have been mugged, assaulted, shoved down train station stairs, worked for a moronic bully, worked with a team of sycophantic numbskulls incapable or original thought, diplomatically handled last minute bizarre requests from all manner of clients and have suffered more weirdness and insults from men in the dating realm than most groups of 20 women have suffered collectively. She has no idea what I've endured in 2 and a half years of job interviews for every type of job I'm remotely qualified to perform, or that I've lost everything, my possessions, my home, everything to the crappy economy, the crappy job market, the crappy housing marketing and that since the age of 10 the Universe has been mocking me with weird obstacles and horrible timing. So. Bring it on, Jane. Bring. It. On.

I take a seat next to Jane and we're off!

The interview proceeds as if I didn't look like I just came off a battle field. The team, who are in varying degrees of noticeable perspiration,  rapid fire questions at me. I respond by citing quantified examples of similar situations I encountered in the past and how I managed them. I volley by asking questions about their company, their clients and their goals and strategy to obtain them and what someone in the open position will bring to help them reach those goals and manage the strategy. They try, oh how they try to throw me off course by tossing in what they think are off the wall questions, but they're not off the wall to me. I've been asked much weirder, much more illegal questions in interviews. What team sports did I play in school? What's my birth order? What's my favorite color? Come on guys, you gotta do better than that to jar my confidence.

One by one the openly sweating team leaves the room and finally it's just me and Jane. Her perfectly applied makeup has gone from dewy to all out sweat, she tried to affect an overly jovial tone, "Well, thank you! That was certainly an informative session."

"Thank you, Jane! It was a pleasure to meet the team and learn about your company and your future plans for the department."

And then she found a way to throw me off course. From out of her notepad she produced the release forms the form guy wanted me to sign on the sidewalk.

"There's just a small matter of the release forms from your, uh, 'fall' out front."

I want this job. I do not want to sue them. The fall was as much my fault as it was theirs.

If I sign the forms I might have a real shot at this job. If I don't sign them, there's no way I'll ever hear from them again.

There's not an option. I briefly read the forms and signed them. Which seemed to please Jane. The ingratiating smile reappeared.

And I asked for copies.

Which seemed to annoy Jane. The fake smile was replaced by a terse pursing of her lips. "Yes, of course," she said very formally, "I'll be right back."

The second I was alone in the conference room every wounded part of my body screamed for attention. It was as if my body knew it had to leave me alone during the interview, but now it could make demands of me. I'm not sure if it was nerves or the pain or the extremely hot conference room, but, now I was also feeling sick to my stomach.

I started fantasizing about a huge bottle of Tylenol and shoulder to foot ice packs.

Making copies of three forms seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time.

Jane finally reappeared with the form guy from the parking lot.

She introduced me to him as "Bob," said she'd be in touch and left the room. "Bob" gave me a forced smile and asked me how I was feeling.

"Okay, considering."

"Considering...?"

You were there, "Bob," you saw me out there, torn suit, bleeding, shaken from falling. "Considering I fell on the sidewalk," I said, trying to hide all traces of sarcasm. I don't know what "Bob's" role in this company is, but, better to not get on his bad side.

"Oh yes, right," Right. As if you forgot all about that, "Bob." "Jane told me you signed the release forms. Did you have a chance to read them before you signed them?"

I was fairly certain "Bob" is the company's legal adviser.

"Not as thoroughly as I would have liked, but they seem like standard release waivers."

"Yes, yes that's what they are. We are concerned about your well being, of course, but we want to be clear that we agree that we are not negligent in any way."

It's a little discouraging that the they're so aware and concerned about negligence and litigation that they have a legal adviser and release waivers ready and waiting to pounce on any situation that could be construed as negligence. Sure, Jane gave me Band-Aids and a first aid kit. They offered to let me reschedule the appointment. They did some due diligence. But, it was clear from the moment "Bob" came rushing out to the sidewalk, release waivers in hand, that their first and primary concern was that I would sue them. I'm sure there are people out there who would do that. I'm sure there are people out there who would orchestrate the situation for the sole purpose of suing. But. I am not one of those people and I resent being treated like one. I know, I know, "Bob" and Jane don't know me and don't know what my motivations are. But still, c'mon, after the interview I gave? I was clearly there for and focused on the job interview. Do they really think an eager candidate like me is going to ruin her chances at the job by suing them?

I'm unemployed. I'm basically homeless. I can barely pay my cell phone bill. I don't have money to even make a phone call to a lawyer, let alone hire one to take on a negligence law suit where I was equally negligent.

No, "Bob" and Jane don't know any of that. Looking at it from their perspective, I could be months of litigation in the making. Or at least that's what they seem to think of me.

I finally said, "I tripped and fell. It was an accident. And I want to get home and get some ice on my knee and ankle."

"Of course, of course," "Bob" said through a clenched teeth smile. I noticed beads of perspiration on his forehead. The conference room was so hot it's impossible to say if he was worried or just really hot.

He wordlessly stood up and walked to the door, made a sweeping gesture to me and said, "After you."

He escorted me past Joyce, through the cube farm and to the main lobby. He made a move to shake my hand, so I gave him a feeble bandaged handshake.

"Nice meeting you. Jane will be in touch. Have a nice day!"

Have a nice day? Really? Really "Bob?" Have a nice day? Play the game, Trill, just play the game.

"Thanks! You, too!"

When I got home and did a full body assessment the damage was, indeed, shoulder to toe. I'm reasonably certain my ankle is sprained. Pretty much the entire right side of my body was blue with bruises. I contemplated filling the tub with ice and laying in it, but I was afraid that once I got into the tub I wouldn't be able to get out. So. I made a bed of ice packs and laid on them all afternoon. My knee stopped bleeding the next day and a week later, the bruises have turned from blue, to purple and now yellowish/brownish. My hand still hurts, but the scrape is healing. I'm on the mend.

The suit was irreparable. The elbow wasn't just worn and frayed, upon closer inspection it, too, was torn. Fortunately I have a couple interview appropriate suits, but that was my favorite one. Straight to the trash. Nothing to salvage.

I sent a thank you note to Jane and the team members, but haven't heard a word from them.

I'll give a follow up call this week but history has taught me that if the interviewer doesn't contact me within a few days of the first interview, they're focusing on other candidates. I thoroughly expect a form rejection email by the end of the week.

And that's okay. I'm used to rejection. Just another drop in the bucket. But. This one's different because of the whole "tripped on their sidewalk" and "release waivers" thing. Are they not hiring me because I stayed to interview while I was bleeding through a torn suit? Are they not hiring me because I tripped and fell on their sidewalk? These are not questions I usually have after an interview. And there's very little info about this sort of thing. I read a few synopsis where people have been injured during job interviews and attempted to sue. So. It does happen. But interesting that it never comes up in discussions and interview prep drills.

A few of my friends admonished me for signing the forms. "You waived your rights! That was stupid! You know better than to sign anything in that kind of situation!" "They are negligent! They failed to properly maintain their property!" "My brother knows a really good personal injury lawyer!"

I was kind of surprised at their reactions. I didn't realize my friends were so litigious.

My only response was, "I wanted that job. I need that job."

My friends don't understand that. They counter with, "Exactly! You have no health insurance! You have no money! That's exactly why you should sue them!"

All I can offer is a meek, "I don't want to threaten them. I need that job." It sounds really pathetic when I hear myself say it. Especially in my swollen, bruised and scabbed state.

And that's when it occurred to me: Maybe I've finally hit bottom. I doubt there's much more I can endure in the name of securing employment. I'm pretty sure I've now experienced every worst case job interview scenario.

Nowhere to go but up, right?

Here's hoping.

There are mostly downsides to unemployment. Not a lot of upsides. So far I've been able come up with exactly one upside: I no longer have to deal with my incompetent, mind-blowingly moronic former manager. And, true, that's no small thing. It's actually a really good thing. Being away from her is good for me in a lot of ways.

But.

That doesn't keep me warm at night. Or feed me. Or put a roof over my head.

Unemployment, and the phases you go through during unemployment, are confusing, demoralizing, humiliating and soul crushing. Pride? Dignity? Oh please, those were gone the third month of unemployment.

I've experienced and endured so much that I've reached a state of emotional entropy. Nothing phases me. With notable few (and extreme) exceptions, there's nothing anyone can say or do to make me feel any worse than I already do. I'm pretty sure I've experienced every emotion there is to experience, so there's not really anything left to feel.

I'm an emotional zombie.

And yes, I kinda already was emotionally dead. I worked hard to get to a place of emotional ambivalence after the breakup with HWNMNBS and it worked. So in a perverse (and clinically disturbing) sense, I could be grateful for the breakup because it forced me to strive for emotional ambivalence, which I then achieved, and so, now, when dealt with another life-altering blow I had emotional tools to cope. Gives cred to the concept that everything happens for a reason. Good and bad.

All in all, it's just another brick in the wall and I'm emotionally comfortably numb. You know it's bad when Pink Floyd summarizes your life outlook.

So I'm in this emotional zombieland, thinking emotional stasis is the best I can hope for, and taking solace and comfort in knowing I'm able to maintain an emotional ambivalence plateau.

And then blam!

Something happens to disrupt my altered sense of well-being.

I took my mother's car to the gas station. And not just the local gas station that's been in my hometown forever. She was riding on fumes so I pulled into the crappy, dirty, scary, gas station/party store in the unchartered scrub area on the outskirts of the wrong side of town. (Okay, to be fair, my hometown doesn't really have a wrong side of town, but you know what I mean. Almost every town has an adjacent area that's a little sketchy.)

My mother gave me money to fill up the car so I was paying cash. So I had to pay first. And I had zero clue what the final dollar amount would be because I was filling up.

I walked in and the guy working there was reading a boobs magazine. I didn't catch the title, but by the looks of the back cover advertising and low quality paper and printing it was something even crappier than Juggs. The floor was filthy (sticky and dirt tracked) and there was a putrid smell I forced myself to attribute to the jerky of various animals in a repurposed oversize pickle jar. A handwritten label taped to the jar said, "Jerkey  deer rabit beef wild turky" I desperately wanted the smell to be deer or "rabit" "jerkey." But something, intuition, I suppose, told me the source of the putrid smell was even more sinister than dried animal meat. This went beyond the stale cheap cigar or sour milk smell one often smells in a craptastic party store on the outskirts of the wrong side of town. I could feel the stench penetrating the fibers of my clothes and knew I'd have to a) ride home with the windows open; b) burn my clothes; c) bathe in bleach for a week; and d) shave my head. It was that bad.

As I stood there momentarily musing as to why they chose to write beef instead of cow, like the other dried animal meat (deer rabit wild turky) the clerk looked up from his boob magazine and said, "Help you?" He was missing a front tooth and had badly inked tattoos around his neck and on his hands and arms. He was really hairy so the tattoos on his arms and hands were indecipherable. The ones around his neck seemed to be botched attempts at tribal and Celtic art.  

Sidebar: Why is it that people who can't afford to go to a dentist can find money for tattoos? Even crappy, badly inked tattoos are expensive. I realize it's a matter of priorities, but why does ink win out over dental work? By definition, anyone who gets a tattoo wants or at least expects attention drawn to them by their ink, so, one can presume they are okay with calling attention to their missing and/or rotting teeth? There's an interesting psychology there. I wonder if anyone's studying it. Note to self: Get grant to study link between tattoos and lack of dentistry. Also, if a guy is really hairy, why bother getting tattoos and not keep the hair shaved? I know it's a lot of upkeep, but if you're not going to commit to the maintenance why bother committing to the permanent ink?

I said to the guy, "I need to fill up," and handed him 4 $20s.

"How much you want?"

"I am filling up, $80 should cover it."

"I need a dollar amount."

"I don't know the final amount, I'm filling up. Based on $4.12 per gallon you're charging, I'm guessing it'll be about $62."

"You want $62?"

"I don't know. I want to fully fill the tank. I'm giving you $80. Once I fill it and know the final amount you can give me the change. Is that not how these transactions usually go down?"

"Usually people know exactly how much money they want to spend." He seemed to be baiting or mocking me.

I was not going to get into an argument over the "usual" exchange of money for petroleum with this guy.

"Okay, I want $73.31 worth of gas on pump 2."

He rang in $73.31 on the cash register.

"You got a penny?" Yes. He asked me if I had the penny. And I'm reasonably certain he wasn't being funny or ironic or sarcastic or even baiting me.

"No. I have four $20 bills."

He held each bill up to the florescent light to make sure it wasn't counterfeit and gave me my change. 

Which, unfortunately, came to $6.69. Yes. I should have thought through the dollar amount before I threw out the arbitrary dollar amount, but when I threw out the arbitrary dollar amount I was being sarcastic and didn't dwell on the outcome. Lesson learned. And the Universe once again evens the score by mocking me.

The number $6.69 appeared on the huge circa 1983 cash register digital display.

This cracked up the hairy toothless tattooed boob magazine guy.

"Wooooeeeee! 69! That's my favorite number!"

No surprise there.

"You know what that means! Lucky number 69!"

Sidebar: Why do creepy guys only know one Kama Sutra position and why is it always 69? And more to my point, why do they always feel a need to proclaim, "My favorite number!" I presume it's because it's the one sexual position they heard about when they were 12 and at the time they felt it was some advanced wisdom they wanted to brag about... and they never advanced past this. But is there something more to it?In my travels around the world it's been a unifying theme among creepy, immature, pervy men. And the occasional skanky woman. "Ooooo, my favorite number!" Even if it is your favorite number why the need to proclaim it, especially with a creepy laugh?

He stood there expectantly grinning at me, his gaze stopping at my boobs, drool forming between the gap where a tooth used to be.

I prayed.

"Are you there God? It's me, Trillian. I know I'm not your favorite lamb and I know we've had our differences over the past, erm, years, but if you let me survive this without being raped and/or killed and/or held prisoner in the back room of this dirty stinky place I promise I will be more open to you. I realize I'm not a good Christian but I am a good person and in the final assessment we both know I don't deserve this."

I didn't acknowledge his "joke" about 69. I just held out my hand for the change.

He handed me change and said, "Here's your 69!" and let out a Beavis and Butthead giggle. Then he handed me the bills, but as I reached to take them he grabbed them away from me.

"C'mon, tell me your favorite number!"

"Six," I deadpanned, thinking of the $6 he had in his hand.

"Six what? Six plus nine?"

"15?" I said, because for a second I truly didn't grasp where he was going with this.

"No! 6 and 9! 69!"  he yelled at me, tinged with hostility. Oh great. I angered it. I'm dead. Or a prisoner.

"Ha. Whatever. May I please have my $6?"

"Ha. Whatever, here," he said mockingly and handed over $6 and went back to his boob magazine.

I decided no matter what the final amount of gas was I was not going back in there for my change. Couldn't be more than $5. And with luck my mother's gas tank would accommodate $73.31 worth of gas and I wouldn't have to worry about losing money.

Unfortunately my calculations were way off. The tank must not have been as empty as I thought because I could only stuff $61.77 into the tank. And believe me, I tried to put more than that into it but it started spilling onto the pavement. I overpaid by $11.54.

$11.54.

It wouldn't be right for me to not return the change to my mother. And that's no small amount of money for me. I've been living on $10 - $15/week for groceries. Pride and fear, schmide and schmear, $11.54 is a lot of money for me.

So I gritted my teeth and returned into the dirty, stinky store.

He had the boob magazine on the counter in front of him, and he was leaning over it, leaning on one hairy tattooed hand. The other hand was under the counter. He was either jerking off or had his hand on the knife he used to kill and skin the deer, "rabits," beefs and wild "turkys" for his "jerkey."

Without looking up he said, "I knew you'd be back."

Oh yes, he did. He said, "I knew you'd be back." I think he was trying to affect a "cute" creepiness. But he was just frighteningly creepy. This guy was now officially my top contender for creepiest guy of the year. And that's saying a lot because even though it's only April I've encountered some really creepy people this year.

I carefully thought out my words, knowing whatever I said next could be the difference between freedom and imprisonment strapped to a wood chair with a ball gag in the smelly back room of this place, eventually being taxidermed and skinned for "jerkey."

When I was 13 I read a Roald Dahl short story titled, The Landlady. That story, more than any other I've ever read or seen portrayed on the Twilight Zone or Night Gallery, haunts me. The theme is creepy (a little old lady takes in lodgers and taxiderms them - it's no Matilda) but it's Dahl's artful storytelling that keeps it omnipresent in my conscience. It's never fully repressed and is my go-to nightmare. And there I was, smack in the middle of a situation that resembled The Landlady.

"Yeah, erm, you owe me $11.54. I miscalculated the amount of gas I needed. By $11.54." 

And then it happened.

"Your name's Trillian. Trill McMillian." He didn't look up from the boob magazine, and uttered this as a statement of fact and accusingly at the same time.

This caught me so off guard and scared me so much that nearly wet myself. I hadn't used a credit or debit card. Unless he somehow stole my wallet there was no way he could know my name.

I didn't say anything.

One of his hands was still out of sight under the counter.

He finally looked up (hand still out of sight) and said, "I'm Jeff Carlisle," as if that explained everything.

My mind was racing. Jeff Carlisle. Jeff Carlisle. Jeff Carlisle...I couldn't come up with anything. Nothing. This guy looked several years older than me so it couldn't be anyone from school, not that I had a lot of friends there anyway, especially boys, no one who would remember or recognize me by name. Not anyone from my parents' church. A neighbor?

Apparently he construed my inability to place his name in my memory banks as an attempt to evade the fact that he knew my name.

"I recognized you before but didn't say anything. Now that fate brought you back..."

Oh crap. "Fate brought me back?" This has just turned from run of the mill creepy gas station attendant creepy to stalker creepy.

"I saw that your dad died."

Oh crap. Stalker. Definitely stalker creepy. Who is this guy? Jeff Carlisle. Jeff Carlisle. Crap. Crap!! Think girl, think!!!

"Your mother still in the same house?"

Okay, that's it. You mess with my mother you're gonna get a piece of me.

"I'm sorry, I can't place you. What did you say your name is?" trying my best to feign casual indifference.

"Jeff. Carlisle. We had government together. 2nd period. Mr. Peterson."

Not a clue. Jeff Carlisle. Jeff Carlisle. Nothing. Nadda. And yes, I had Mr. Peterson for government class, but so did half the school. We only had two government teachers. And I'm pretty sure I had it in the afternoon, 6th period. But if I say that, then I'm admitting that I was at school with him, or at least had Mr. Peterson for government.

"Sorry, not ringing any bells."

"I look a lot different, now" he offered.

"Well, don't we all," I said, forcing jocularity. "I'm kind of in a hurry so...my change?"

"You don't look much different. I knew it was you almost right away. You can change your hair but you can't change your height or your eyes. I wasn't sure for a minute, though because wow, you really, uh, blossomed."  He threw his head and gave a knowing glance at my chest then proffered another grin with drool through missing tooth space.

So much for God and answered prayers. More proof He does not exist.

This guy looked a lot older than me, but then, people always think that, don't they? No one ever thinks they look their age while everyone else looks older. Most of my classmates were two years older than me, but still, this guy looked many years older than me. Or maybe not. Maybe this Jeff Carlisle was a classmate and maybe he's a mirror of reality for me. Maybe I look as old as he does.

But there was still a disturbing angle to this. No one ever thinks the creepy perv working at a seedy gas station or Kwik E Mart or porno video store is a former classmate, either. Oh sure, we have our suspicions about some of our classmates, certain kids seem destined for certain futures. I remember a couple girls who seemed destined for the stripper pole, and, I long ago heard that's exactly where they both ended up. One of them reportedly did some "modeling" for the kind of magazines like the one my erstwhile classmate was looking at in the gas station. But I never thought about where creepy pervs come from. I mean, I knew they had to come from somewhere, but surely I didn't go to school with anyone who would grow into a sleazy gas station attendant missing a tooth with badly inked tattoos who looks at cheap boob magazines at work. These guys just appear, fully grown, adult creepy perv men, right? They don't have parents or childhoods or go to school or hang out with other kids. I didn't go to school with anyone who would become one of them. Or, maybe I did.

I was not popular in school. In fact I was a social pariah. I had friends, but they were the other dorks and geeks. We spent our school days with our heads down and noses in our books hoping to be ignored in the halls and at lunch. I am 100% certain there was not one boy harboring any sort of "feelings" for me. Certainly not well enough to notice, care about or remember my eyes. I knew a few boys, we were friends, and they were not interested in me "that" way. I know this because they used to ask me advice on how best to woo the other nerd girls.

So I am absolutely certain this Jeff Carlisle, if that is his real name, did not have a crush on me back then. And playing Devil's advocate, let's just say he did have a crush on me. He's been harboring it all these years, waiting for the day I'd walk into the gas station during his shift? It's a very small town, and those who don't make it out get trapped for life, but still...it's all completely implausible.

I instinctively hugged my arms close to my body, trying to cover my boobs.

"You were super smart. What are you doing now? Brain surgeon? Lawyer? Oh wait, no, biology, right?"

Oh crap.

This encounter has just gone from creepy to super creepy to demoralizing. 

I lied. Okay? I lied. I was not going to admit to the creepy hairy gas station attendant with a missing tooth and badly inked tattoos reading a boobs magazine that I'm unemployed and no one will hire me and I have to move in with my mother because I couldn't pay my mortgage and lost everything. To admit that would also mean admitting that the creepy hairy gas station attendant with a missing tooth and badly inked tattoos reading a boobs magazine is doing better in life than I am. He has a job. I do not. So I lied.

I've never lied about being unemployed. I don't love admitting it, but I'm not ashamed of it, either. And there's no point in lying about it, anyway. Until now.

I've been in some low places. Really low places. And that emotional ambivalence has pulled me through them. But this...this knocked me out of my emotional zombieland and into a deeper place of self-loathing and despair. Maybe if he wasn't so creepy. Maybe if he wasn't looking at a boob magazine. Maybe if he didn't gawk at my boobs. Maybe if he hadn't mentioned my parents. Maybe if he had both hands where I could see them. 

I just gave a noncommittal, "Yeah." I could be agreeing with him about the smart part, or the blossoming part, not the career part. 

"I saw in your dad's obituary you aren't married. Or you kept your name...," he said, in a leading tone. He was looking at my hands, clearly looking to see if there was a ring of any kind.

Great, this guy was not messing around. He might as well cut me up with a dull hunting knife because he was already cutting me right down to metaphorical size by jabbing at me about my career and lack of marriage. And seriously, he read the obituary and memorized it? My dad's been dead three years. He read the obituary and remembered it three years later? Who is this guy? Jeff Carlisle. Jeff Carlisle. Carlisle. Carlisle. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

"I'm not one for convention," I said flatly with a hint of "mind your own business or I'll get my 6'7" Green Beret boyfriend nicknamed Killer to come and beat you up." "I'm not one for convention" could mean that my 6'7" boyfriend and I eschew traditional societal commitments in favor of deep symbiotic emotional bonds that transcend names and rings. Right? It could mean that.

The gas station guy said, "Ha! That's a good answer! I'm gonna remember that! I been down the aisle three times, after my last divorce I said never again. 'I'm not one for convention!' Gotta remember that!"

Great. The creepy hairy gas station attendant with a missing tooth and badly inked tattoos reading a boobs magazine has convinced three women to marry him and I haven't even had a date in...well...it's been a while. 

I tried to smile politely and said, "I really am kind of in a hurry, so...my change?"

He said, "Hold on, hold on, I'm coming, I'll get you, just catching up with an old friend," as if he were addressing an impatient customer behind me. Except there was no one there but me. I was the only customer inside and outside. That I knew of, anyway. Who knows who might be tied up and ball gagged in the back room?

He handed me the coins, and as I reached for the bills he used the teasing gesture of pulling away the bills again.

"C'mon, Trill, c'mon, what's your favorite number? C'mon, we're not kids anymore, tell me what you like." He was staring at my chest again, more drool forming where his tooth used to be.

But at least I could now see both his hands. "I like to arrive at my appointments on time, so please give me my change so I can be on my way."

"Awright, awright, here you go. Sheesh, you didn't used to be so uptight."

Yeah, well, even though I don't remember you, I'm guessing you didn't used to be so creepy and hairy and gross and I presume you had all your teeth.

He handed me the bills and continued, "Sheesh, girl grows some tits and suddenly she's better than everyone."

Wanted to say: Sheesh, guy loses a tooth and suddenly he's a creepy perv with badly inked tattoos working at a gas station looking at boob magazines.

Instead, I shot him a, "You and I both know that's not true, you and I both know you're way over the line" look.

He seemed to get it because he said, "Aww, just having a little fun. Don't go away mad, girl!"

I turned and walked out to the car. The fresh air was instant relief, I got out of there alive. Freedom. Fresh air. Ahhhhh. Maybe there is a God. Sorry, God. We'll talk later.

But my relief was short-lived. I could feel his eyes on me through the window the entire walk. As I got into my mother's car I heard the overhead speaker cackle. "Wooooeeee, you always did have a nice ass, nothing's changed there! You on Facebook? Look me..." I slammed the car door before he finished the sentence. Yeah, right. I'll look you up, all right. On the most wanted bulletin board at the post office.

I have zero clue who Jeff Carlisle is. Zero. By asking my mother and siblings a few questions I've eliminated church and the neighborhood. Doesn't really matter how he knows me. But. He got to me. He knocked me from the safety of my emotional ambivalence. I didn't think I could fall any farther, didn't think there was any lower rung on the spiral of failure and despair, but apparently I haven't reached bottom. There are lower places to fall and I'm clearly still falling.

Jeff Carlisle, whomever he is, is just someone I passed on my way down. Three failed marriages, a missing front tooth, badly inked tattoos, looking at cheap boob magazines and working at a dirty, crappy gas station/party store and he's doing better than I am: At least he has a job.

If you're receiving copious spam or "weird" email from me, I'm truly sorry. Some worm found its way into my mail box. I have my suspicions but it doesn't matter who, how or where. I have taken corrective measures and I think (hope) the problem is under control, now.

Really sorry. I hate belgiuming spam with a passion unbridled and I am so sorry if it hit your mail box.