Some free time last week is spent with a recruiter–an employment recruiter. Very interesting. She wants to “tease out” my talents, goals, preferred income level and perfect job situation. Somehow, none, none, millions and write all day do not seem like correct responses so I supply answers of a more palpable variety.
She is very nice, very kind and so very outgoing her personality fills the room. And we talk pearls. She doesn’t care one way or another but her sister loves pearls. We discuss sister’s collection, colors and wearability with anything in the Pinterest closet. What? You don’t have a Pinterest closet? Oh, girlfriend, fix that business right now. Go onto Pinterest, enter women’s fashion and start pinning. If The Secret proves correct, dresses will simply float their way into your actual, real-life closet. And when they don’t you can visit them anytime just by accessing your boards.
My Pinterest closet is a thing of beauty. I’ve been complimented on it and graciously taken the praise as if I had a damn thing to do with the outfits, mostly dresses, which reside therein. You can visit the closets of others if you choose to travel about in Pinterest land. And every once in a while, you land on a bitch you hate and rejoice that her imaginary taste is every bit as bad as it is in real life. Bonus!
So, how on earth do pearls come up with a recruiter? She says she likes to close with a question that catches people off guard, reveals something about them that is unexpected and has nothing to do with career. So she poses, “Tell me something about yourself that has nothing to do with your career, your family, something that is uniquely you, something you love–a hobby, a thing, something like that. The first thing that springs to mind.” As I stroke the four strand beauty laid about my collarbone, I say, “Pearls.” She squees and we talk about her sister’s collection. Now this is job placement at its best.
She asks why I’m not in fashion and I want to kiss her flats. It’s Friday. She’s participating in that repulsive casual Friday thing. Good Lord, when will we do away with this ridiculousness and come to our senses? No work day is casual day. That’s what the privacy of your own home is for dumbass. I can tell this girl’s a fashionista at heart and had I caught her on Thursday I may have spied a gorgeous peep toe pump or stunning stiletto. I tell her if she has fashion jobs at the ready, I’m her go-to girl and fan myself a little at the excitement. She compliments my suit and shoes and I know we’ll be besties in no time.
From here I venture to meet Sweetest G and River Rafter Girl as we place the finishing touches on the wedding shower of Goddess Trish’s little one. It will take place at the holy grail of Scottsdale wedding shower spots. You know it ladies, the land of strawberry salad and perfect bread surrounded by gardens, scones and frosted sugar cookies. Details out of the way, we decide lunch is in order and the Goddess herself joins us. This day just gets better and better.
Over bellinis, we catch up on work and children and life including a particularly disturbing dream haunting my day. In said dream, I decide it is time to reach out for mad skills and go in search of someone to take care of my need. Requirements are quite clear: No emotional attachment. No one knows what I’ve done and I can’t have met him or ever see him again. So, of course, a Russian Mob House is the place to go. Until this nocturnal journey, the existence of a house filled with Russian mobsters living together commune style for the purpose of serving widows hadn’t crossed my mind. Evidently this is a thing.
I venture to Mobster House and pick a specimen, the most disgusting to be had. Very hairy, terrible breath and big gold rings on all eight fingers. He’s kind of a slob, jamming various foreign foods in his pie hole and calling me baby. It’s now or never and the black and white checkerboard tile floor will do. I am stopped short not by the filthy floor but by his stomach so rounded in its girth that measurement would be a struggle and the amount of hair; long, long hair draped about his belly comb-over fashion. I decline his kindness, slam a shot of vodka and make a run for it.
We laugh in the retell and the chicks wonder why the search does not include something young and hot. It’s the stretch marks, various things that droop, the ass and all the rest that is no longer solid. And Sweetest G says, “What are you some kind of Hagatha?” We laugh at how we look at ourselves. Women hate our asses, boobs, legs and flappy arms. Lots of us hate those. We can always get Fancy Arms–truly it is a thing. It’s a sleeve to put on over your flab. They are skin colored so you can pretend no one notices there is a strange nylon-type contraption covering your arm. The advantage: Now you may feel free to wave to your friends willy nilly.
We all have a bit of Hagatha in us–God only knows why. Don’t know a single man walking around worrying about the size of his stomach, the shape of his ass or the shine of his bald head. Hell, even Russian Mobster Man nearly got laid. And therein lies the hilarity of what we see and believe about ourselves.
Goddess Trish says, “Well, it really is a day of Hagatha and the HeadHunter isn’t it?” Silence for just a sec. Fall on the floor in peals of laughter. Don’t get it yet? Think about it. Searching out mad skills, job recruiter, Hagatha?
Silly Goddess. You wish she was your friend, don’t you?