"...Why would you use my aftershave for that?" [F-locked because it'd jinx it.]
Mm...right. Explanation.
My brother passed me the church info flyer during the service with a really big section arrow'd, which went as follows:
"INSTRUCTOR NEEDED: FCFC's After School Program has a paid hourly position available. The Qualifications are as follows:
• High school Graduate with completion of some college courses
• Available to work the required program hours
• Reliable, personal transportation and a personal cell phone
• Demonstrated experience working with children
• Positive response to criminal background check (fingerprint)
• Basic computer skills"
Me: *shrugs, nods in church because we're good presbyterians and we don't say anything like so* *passes pink sheet back across the full row our family typically occupies* *goes back to scribbling epic sermon notes about Zechariah*
This escalated back home into my dad talking about how perfect for the position I'd be and how it would answer all my prayers, and why don't I get a résumé out rightthiseveningrightaway?
Me: Uhh...it's Sunday. *after all we're not even allowed to do schoolwork Sundays in my house*
Dad: So? It needs to be done quickly. *obviously not grasping the point, because he's plain-faced serious*
Me: *suspiciously* So...I have your permission to work on it, then?
Dad: There are WORD templates. Go use one of those.
Me: Right. You remember that Potato doesn't have WORD, right? *looks pointedly because someone was cheap in buying him*
Dad: Use your mom's computer. *belatedly* It's fine if she uses it, right?
It's pretty funny, of course, because my dad is laid-back and gentle except when it comes to work, where he's typically dutch and dyslexic and insists that everything must be done two weeks early or you're tempting fate.
So I've been here all afternoon trying to research in my roundabout, incomprehending fashion, how to make a cover letter and a résumé because...showing me one example is never enough. I have to get a gist from about fourteen and compile some new elaborate system to do it. It's as bad as my character apps? Anyone who's seen me do the few I've done for communities here will know I plan about a month in advance and write them up and double-check them at home.
Apparently my dad wants me to dispatch this tonight.
Me: *cringeface* *tries to control escapist urges*
dad: *bestows a stack of pastoral résumés from when he was on the church selection board, and a folder filled with all my supposed good points* Oh look. This is a certificate for the FCAT.
Me: *scratches head, skimming over bundles of certification* Uh. Yeah. That was that year I got the perfect score by mistakenly marking myself "multiracial" on the test when they asked for my race because I've got multiple types of white people in my veins.
Mom: WHAT? You actually did that?
(Yes. I did. That's another story.)
So here I am, supposedly highlighting things,a nd being praised embarrassingly by my dad for having "abilities that are eprfect for this", gradually getting annoyed enough to retort back, "Yeah, except I stink at first impressions."
"What? But you can write!"
"Yeah? So can everyone else! I write fiction, but this is ridiculous!"
"But you edit all your friends' papers online. Why don't you put that down?"
"They aren't papers! They're stories! And it's mostly we read one anothers' work because it's cheaper than buying the things, we can make requests, and who else is going to make a steampunk alternate universe with victorian magicians and geeky engineering references? Or analyze manga characters to the point of absurdity? They're my friends. It's not like I'm editing their doctoral thesis. Didn't you look at these scores?"
"Yeah. You got 98th percentile on the Pre-ACT test."
"I got 98th percentile in science. My punctuation score is horrible!"
And so on and so forth. He's not content with me talking about ancient cultures. ("Egyptology is much mroe respectable, and still true.")
Aah. He means well, but I'm already pretty overwhelmed by having to do this TONIGHT. >_>
Fsss. They want letters of recommendation. The extension for the woman in charge was wrong in the bulletin, and she asked for an email, then didn't give me it. (I looked it up using the internet. Mmhmm. Such a scary age we live in.)
I feel as though I'm prancing through hoops.
And it's rather against my inner nature to prance.
Somehow I'm half amused and half stricken by this violation of my inner fabric and nature. Gah. *shudders*
But apparently the job is perfect for me. Uh huh.
I don't know about that. My GPA is terrible, and while I'm an education major, I'm sure there are people ten times as qualified signing up for it.
Plus if I get the interview, I'm the spotty monolingual kid in knee-high boots and muffin hat. Terrible first-impression. And who knows how reliable my transportation is. The only mercy is the fact the church is within biking distance.
ugh...I just...
This is probably why I don't have a job, still.
...
...
So I've been sitting here for three hours listening to a combination of Vitamin String Quartet and mind-altering metal, with headphones over my ears, when I realize that my head HURTS on one side.
Brain tumors. I should have never used a cell phone.
Nah. turns out I just have this giant zit growing right in the cup of the cartelige of my ear. I can't reach it to do the disgusting thing I tend to do to most of my acne. (ie: Squeeze that thing until it explodes and bleeds everywhere.)
So I finally get up with my helpful classical orchestra behind me and drag myself to the bathroom where having a fifteen-year-old sister has caused a massive shortage of all benzoyl-peroxide and salycitic acid containers.
Except by brother's anti-acne aftershave lotion.
Desperate-faced contemplation.
Should I...?
Nah...I shouldn't. I really...
I really...
FSSSSSS.
IamsosquirtingthatstuffalloverthefloortryingtogetitinmyearyesyesYES
So I come out smelling like boy, with this white stuff puddled in my ear, and run into Roast, who gives me this look, and being the person I am (Ie: the kind of chick who acts like your older brother) I shrug at him and go, "Oh. Yeah. Yessy used all the acne-stuff, so I just used some of your aftershave on my ear to kill this brain tumor? I didn't use much."
"...Why would you use my aftershave for that?"
"Urgh...thing's still there...can you see it?"
"I don't want to see it."
So naturally, I'm there for ten minutes chasing him around trying to rub my ear on his shoulder as he tears around shirtless and ready for bed, hooting and hollering, and generally worrying the neighbors because this is Florida, so we have our windows open in the middle of December to let in the nice air...
Yeah. Productive.
The thing is STILL in my ear, and I still don't want to do the résumé. Because instead of doing soemthing productive with my time, I wrote an entry to the world about acne, and boy-smells, and Egyptology.
Yeah...I'm going to go off and get a job for sure due to my amazing first impressions.
Mutter mutter mutter...
I need a job, but seriously. WHY would someone hire me?
Would any of you hire me?
You SO want to hire some chick in a muffin hat with an ear full of aftershave.
*jedi mind tricks*