Unemployment #10: Don’t Abuse your Netflix Account

February 14, 2011 § Leave a comment

About a two weeks ago, I exhausted  the best Christmas present my brother J** has ever given me, “The Wire.” It took me longer than expected to finish the 5-season show because my sister and brother-in-law decided that they loved it too, and now I had to watch it on their schedule. No harm done, however, because having a schedule meant that I could accomplish other things during my day, most important–job hunting.

A couple of weeks ago, I checked out Netflix to see if I could get  a free trial in which I could watch as many tv shows as I wanted. By chance, I discovered that sometime in the past, my father had added my computer to his Netflix account and I could watch as much as I wanted FOREVER.

Don’t make the same mistake I did. Don’t decide to watch the X-Files, from season 1 to 9 (currently on 5) because that was the nerdy part of high school you tried to avoid but would inevitably succumb to later in your adult life.

No matter how much funny shit Mulder says, don’t fall prey to his poker-face delivered jokes.

“Squeeze,” Season 1: Mulder sticking his hand in bile and announcing, “Quick, how do I get this off without betraying my cool exterior.”

“Humbug,” Season 2: Mulder catching Mr. Nutt, the dwarf or little person from “Twin Peaks,” underneath Scully’s trailer:

Mr. Nutt: Just because I’m not of so-called average height does not mean I must receive my thrills vicariously. Not all women are attracted to overly tall, lanky men such as yourself. You’d be surprised how many women find my size intriguingly alluring.

Mulder: You’d be surprised how many men do as well.

Don’t clap and giggle every time The Lone Gunmen appear in an episode.

Try to not become a victim of pop culture, thus feeling amazed when “The Andy Griffith Show” is cross-referenced with an X-Files episode in a quaint town where the villains are inbred monsters–BRILLIANT.

Don’t stay up all night watching the X-Files and then act like you’re 8 and need to sleep with the lights on because you’re too creeped out to fall asleep.

When ants start to crawl into the cracks of your basement room after a rainstorm, don’t think that the infestation automatically assumes X-File status.

Though watching “The Wire” only took an hour or less per day, abusing my newly discovered Netflix account has resulted in two weeks of doing nothing but eating, exercising, and watching the X-Files–oh, and NOT job hunting.

My job-hunting motivation has been equitably slaughtered by Mulder and Scully.

Things I was going to do in the last couple of weeks:

  1. Read The Brothers Karamazov X-Files Season 1
  2. Write two articles for a freelance gig X-Files Season 2
  3. Take the Food Handlers test X-Files Season 3
  4. Look for jobs X-Files Season 4
  5. Finish reading A People’s History of the United States X-Files Season 5

My friends in Wisconsin will be happy to know, however, that I took a break from my FBI fantasies to watch the Packers win the Super Bowl.

Interview #1: My first group interview, August 2010

January 24, 2011 § Leave a comment

Group interview. When spoken aloud, this phrase explodes at over 130 decibels and leaves irreversible damage to my tympanic membrane.

I arrive at Buffalo Wild Wings. I’m wearing a black turtleneck, gray slacks (Calvin Klein) and some inexpensive-looking, but actually very expensive, shoes.

I am the only person at the interview not wearing jeans. If I had known that this interview was a microcosm of Casual Friday, I would have worn my Chase Utley t-shirt and my Phillies hat, not the standard red cap with an embroidered white “P,” but the spring training model. My regular hat is flat-brimmed and of course I want to look casual, not gangsta.

There are two women that are about to interview the five of us: one male and four women (I guarantee I’m the only one over 25). Quickly, I discover that I am the only one with bar-tending and serving experience.

Mr. Male  immediately stands out because he can’t stop cracking jokes from the second everyone sits down and the interviewers are eating up his cheesy witticisms, chewing on them thoughtfully, and thinking “we’ve already picked our guy, but for the sake of democracy, let’s interview these other suckers anyway.”

I have often been criticized for looking too serious and not smiling enough. Well, for the longest time I was hyper-conscious of my “bad” teeth and didn’t feel like cracking a mouth full of them for strangers. As for my serious look? I have yet to hear that pensiveness, “thinking before you speak,” and ultimate sangfroid are part of any employer’s nightmarish acid trails.

The second woman interviewer, who is around my age and resembles me in appearance, is far more surly looking and unkempt than I could ever be and her reticence suggests that she hates working at Buffalo Wild Wings.

The interviewers herald BW3’s as a place where you have to love sports. No shit. They ask everyone in the interview about their favorite team, except me. Why? Probably because I’m the only one that dressed appropriately.

Girl 1: I dunno, I guess any Portland State team. Gotta support the school, ya know.

Girl 2: I guess, like, I like all types of sports.

Guy: I like the Minnesota Vikings, I mean, I’ve always kind of rooted for them.

Me: I’m really excited about Philadelphia Phillies playoff potential and whether Roy Halladay can prove his worth in his first post-season game ever. It’s unfortunate that they traded Cliff Lee, if they had him this year they truly would have an all-star starting rotation. Did I mention that I don’t care  for the Eagles new quarterback, Kevin Kolb. If it were my choice, Michael Vick would start. I don’t care if he electrocuted dogs, as far as I’m concerned, he did his time. Is he at fault? Of course, but there are other professional athletes who have done far worse things–to people.

Oh wait, they decided to NOT ask me.

How do I know dude got the job? I saw him bar-tending through the window while I was wandering around two months later dropping off resumes, sobbing as my tears splashed on the edges of my downtrodden soul.

Crying? Machines don’t cry.

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