Interview With An Idiot

I've been promising a recap of my JET interview experience in Chicago for some time now. I know it hasn't been the requisite 5 months since it happened but it has been a month and change and the time is nearing that I'll find out if my ruse really worked.

Let me start out by saying I don't like Chicago. I don't like the drive to Chicago, I don't like Chicago motorists, I don't like it's slums and I don't like how everyone wants you to tip them. I had my first experience with tipping seconds after I got out of my car. I've never done the valet thing before so when I insisted on carrying my bags to the front desk (because the valet INSISTED on parking my damn car) he looked mildly disappointed, let down.

Please.

I guess I made things even more uncomfortable by stiffing him when off he went to park my car and off I went to eat my fingers the rest of the night because there aren't any fucking restaurants on the strip. After I had my fill of HAND, I called my parents to let them know I was ok. During this call my dad said many things to put me at ease for my big day, among which was "Don't forget to tip the valet guys or you'll be sleeping with the fishes in Lake Michigan." Thanks, dad.

The JET interview the following afternoon was cause for both a golden period of confidence (approximately 14 minutes) and then several weeks of self-doubt and loathing. I felt good enough about my knowledge of Japanese current events and other "quick facts" that in the preceeding days to the interview I studied the intangibles by: buying pretentious coffee-inspired drink at Borders, spreading papers all over, listening to my iPod and feverishly touching myself beneath the table. Ok, ok, I wasn't really listening to my iPod.

I feel as though I said some good things -- my mission is 'internationalization', helping the kids grow as people, teaching them the c-word -- and that I said some regretful things. We all know I'm good at that. My 'demo lesson' on an American holiday was predictably bland (Christmas) and not wholly American now that I think about it. I failed so miserably at that that they had to cut me off -- "that's enough, thanks."

What's done is done, though. Despite some horrific interview moments I think I accomplished what I set out to do, and that was to appeal to the panel's emotions more than, say, demonstrate my inability to teach english. Today is 25 March and I should know my status with JET sometime within the next 12 days. To be honest I'm excited and scared shitless at the same time.

Regrettable Unforgettables

In keeping with the theme of blogging 5 months after I should, I've compiled a list of regrettable things I do on a regular basis which have put me in socially awkward positions.

With my old age (24), senility’s icy cold grip has begun squeezing my neck and at work, especially, I've felt the effects. No longer can I proofread a survey in decent time, such as an entire work day, without considering suicide or burning it outside during lunch hoping my bosses will forget the survey (the one we were contracted to do) ever existed. Anyway, the fact that I've lost my mind has led me into several inescapably uncomfortable situations in the office over the last few months. Examples:

The Wig. Every morning I retrieve my center’s mail at the dorm front office. This always provides a good break in my day, a transition period between the silent, early morning surliness and teeth gnashing rage that consumes me after lunch. I fucking hate proofreading surveys. This little field trip of mine also provides a chance to say hi to a few happy faces before resuming my task of rapid decomposition. I was handing some mail over to the supervisor and noticed unusually purply-brown sheen on her hair. Not one to really inspect things I glance at nor think about them, nor yet realize I don’t in fact have any game, I found myself complimenting her on how nice her hair looked.

“It’s a wig.”

And here was when I promptly left, tail between my legs. What would you have done? Right.

I Love You. Sometimes that mad little scientist I believe is turning cranks, writing things down, and advising me what to say from somewhere deep inside my scattered mind computes something funny and like a receipt emerging from whateverthefuckitscalledthatreceiptsemergefrom, out comes a joke so horrifically regrettable that I’m lucky I don’t show up on several “Sex Offenders Near You” sites. Well, not that bad. Take for instance one day in the office. The five of us assistants are working diligently on things. One of us, let’s call him SteveDave, kindly took our portions of a task and was doing them for us, prompting a female coworker to remark, “SteveDave, we love you for doing that.”

Sensing comedic opportunity, the mad scientist dropped his clipboard and ran over to a type-writer to punch out what I was to say in the coming seconds, something that to this day still haunts me. I waited for immediate chatter to die down, plus 3 more seconds of silence, and said, flatly,

“I love you, SteveDave.”

Never before had it been so quiet in that office, and never before had I wished so surely to light myself on fire. Either no one understood that I in fact did not love SteveDave or everyone was shocked at such an open, intimate admission of feelings. For those of you scoring at home, SteveDave didn’t say goodbye to me that day like he normally did.

Image Search. Continuing the theme of wanting to burn myself alive, I perhaps had another lapse in good judgment recently. Our beloved friend SteveDave was laughing at an email we received from a woman, rhetorically asking us “What do you say to a 55 year-old woman asking what ‘transgender’ means?” Once again, mad scientist dropped his clipboard and ran over to a primitive looking computer panel, pushed some buttons, pulled some levers. Forgetting that we DO work in social research, revealing all of society’s moral black eyes, and that I DO work with a self-proclaimed “queer” girl who is acutely sensitive to offensive comments, I wisely blurted out without hesitation:

“Do a google image search!! Haha.”

Stop it right now, I know what you’re thinking, I know what she was thinking, and I’m not so callously insensitive as to imply that transgender people equals pictures we can laugh at.

Not necessarily.

What I did have in mind, though, was that you can type in any innocuous search term on Google and receive approximately 1,503 pictures with a hilarious mixture of leather, tubs of Helmann's mayonnaise, and midgets. The humor unfortunately (for me) went unseen and you can imagine the icy cold mind bullets that hit very soon thereafter.

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Additionally, and without fail, I maintain my habit of making social blunders in and out of work. I can’t not look at blazingly white teeth, for one. This girl came into work looking for someone and man, she had some chompers. Them shits was WHITE. So I’m talking to this girl and apparently also completely failing in my attempt to hide the fact that I’m staring with mouth open at her pearly whites.

She covered her mouth and continued talking.

I appropriately felt like a freak and later at home tore off my clothes, turned on cold water, and huddled into a ball in the shower, scream-crying myself to sleep.

Oh, it gets worse – I was at the bar and bumped into an old schoolmate / acquaintance. Thing was, I had just returned from the restroom and my hands were wet as all hell. “Dear god,” I’m thinking, “please don’t want to shake my hand.” Perhaps because I am a non-believer, god said “And they shall shake hands. Hahaha.” I had no choice but to give him the wettest, most disgusting handshake he’ll ever have. And most likely the last one from me.

Finally, I end this entry with a complaint of my own. Anyone who uses a mouse and has coworkers will understand that one seemingly loses all ability to work a computer when another stands over them from behind. This was embarrassingly evident last week when one of my bosses oversaw me as I worked the mouse. Nervous and wanting desperately just to make her leave, I accidentally double clicked something which clearly required one click, like a link, and could tell she was mocking me to all hell in her head. There’s no greater feeling of helpless regret than that, my friends. Damn, girl.

I’m out. Next up: short review of my JET interview in Chicago.