How Many CEO's Does It Take To Change A Light Bulb?
Well. What a waste of a day. I hate wasting days, hours, minutes, words. To me, that kind of a day is insufferable. And I have them rarely. It started when I couldn’t go to sleep last night even though I had to get up early for an interview for a job. A job that I don’t want, didn’t want and would never want but I go because, hey, it might be THEE job right? And the economy’s bad and I’m out of work and these people were offered up by my former employers, blah blah blah. In short, all the wrong reasons to get out of bed at all as far as I’m concerned. No wrong side of the bed crap here. I get out on the right side all the time. In fact, I should probably try the other side just for fun to see if my luck changes in any way at all. Then after the interview I have to go see a recruiter agency to update my files. Sigh. I get up too late to do my morning Ohm’s and run out the door as my new car is bucking, why, I don’t know. Maybe because, oh yeah, it’s a Ford product, it’s an American car, and 13 months is about par for the lifetime of an American car. Yeah, yeah, come and get me, I’m from Detroit, so I know, so just shut up about it. So when I take it back to the dealership because I’m still under my 30 second warranty, they say, well, we test drove it and it didn’t do anything for us. Okay, okay. Gimme it back. I’m the hysterical woman who just doesn’t know how to accelerate after 30 years of driving. In fact, on second thought, give me back my ’98 Ford Escort. Might as well.
Hey, I’m just warming up here. Stay with me. I get to this interview in Brentwood of all places that I never am and find the visitor parking spot in the building next door where cars are shoved in spaces like sardines one on top of the other. After I get over my initial panic attack at another car parked behind me, I head for the offices of the place I’m interviewing. The woman who I talked to over the phone about the job greets me and she’s nice enough. In fact, she’s very pleasant and I find myself able to actually converse without any trace of animosity, irritation, annoyance, frustration or smoke coming out my ears at having to be there and repeat for the umpteenth time in my life what I’ve been doing for the last ten years or twenty years or whatever or where I’m from la dee dah, blah blah blah.
As she explains the job which is basically babysitting a grown man, which all these jobs ever are, how he wants his paper in the morning, me to be at my desk at 8 a.m. sharp, to remember every little item of his home, office, family and friends such as who was the plumber they got last year, what kind of light bulbs do they use on their chandeliers, you know, all really important stuff like that that makes me want to get up on the wrong side of the bed in the mornings, as she explains the job (can you say long run on sentence because I’m emotionally overwrought), I’m thinking how can I make a run for it. How can I actually beat it out of there before I have to meet this overgrown baby who’s known nothing but a silver spoon up his ass for as long as he’s been living and wouldn’t know how to wipe his own ass if it weren’t for some woman next to him telling him what to do.
But wait, there’s more. Stay with me. This gal I’m talking to then tells me that this CEO wants to hire someone who’s going to be there forever. Because when he retires, his son will take over for him and by the way, I’m working for the son as well. So I see, I should profess to want to be here for THE REST OF MY LIFE???!!!! WHAT??!! Right. Let me just rethink those plans to own my own company, be President of the United States, a vacation, that novel I want to write, oh and anything else exciting I wanted to do with my life because I am in this position forever.
Then she proceeds to tell me that he likes things just so every day and he doesn’t use a computer and will need me to tell him when he has a hair appt., keep his calendar, and so on and so on. Okay, two minutes into this job, I’d be teaching this guy how to use Microsoft Outlook calendar and email and how to listen to his own voicemails with the edict not to bother me unless he’s on fire, underpants, France and all, because I’ll be on the Internet and reading his paper. You gotta be kidding me.
Oh and the woman that’s in the position now is moving back to the East Coast and she might be going in two weeks or six weeks but he doesn’t like all the “not-knowing.” I see, he doesn’t like that she’s a human being with all the ups and downs, inconsistencies, unpredictabilities and the like of the human condition and her silly little life is interrupting his plans for haircuts and light bulb information. Riight. Sounds like a great job to me. All for the discounted price of 50 or 60k. Not even enough to save a decent amount of money for my silly little retirement but then again I’m supposed to calcify there in my chair and not retire at all.
But wait, there’s more. Between thinking of hightailing it out of there and how I could demonstrate a Section 8, this gal tells me that if I don’t have any questions, I can meet the man himself. Oh boy, I’ll bet this is going to be good. I do have a question: um, how big of a jerk is he really? Here’s another question: if I took a poll of all the people in the office, how many would say they’d like him as their dad? Oh, wait another question: what does his ex-wife say about him?
So I walk across the carpeted path with secs in cubes on one side and glass-walled offices on the other to this man’s office. I guess in their offices they like to know what you’re thinking, saying, and doing at all times which is what's up with all the glass walls or no walls. I notice how quiet it is in the area. You could hear a pin drop on the carpeting is how quiet it is. I walk in the office and see a short, gray haired, nice-looking guy who is probably not more than a decade older than I am, maybe 12 years at the most and shorter than me. Napolean, heal thyself. He motions for me to sit down in a chair at one end of his office and he then proceeds to sit in a chair all the way across the other side of his office. I mean, we were not close. I thought that maybe I would have to get out my megaphone to talk. Maybe he thought I had cooties. Maybe I do and don’t know it. That’s probably why I don’t get direct-hired a lot. That and my cranky attitude towards CEO’s who don’t know how to work computers and need me to remember plumbers and light bulbs. Okay, I digress.
So I sit down and he proceeds to grill me on every aspect of my resume wanting me to fill in the blanks of every year that I have on there from the time I graduated college. Oh and what college did I go to? “Never heard of it.” I don’t give a shit whether you heard of it or not, that’s where I went to school and so did my aunts and if it was good enough for them, it was for me. What did I do between 1994 and 1996? Slept. What do you think? I married Rip Van Winkle and slept.
Now the gal had prepped me for this next line of questioning by telling me that he likes to get to know his personnel and if it bothers me to answer anything, to just tell him. Okay. He asks me what my father does? I said my father died two years ago. His response was not, hey, I’m sorry to hear that, but (with a wave of his hand), "What did he do?" Okay. Excuse me, my father was everything to me and if you’re going to diss my family then you can take this job and shove it up your lily-white, silver-spooned fanny (said with a heavy ghetto accent and a jive shake of the head, remember, I am from Detroit).
Then he wants to know do I have brothers and sisters? A sister. “Oh is she married? (huh?) What does she do?” She teaches. What does your mother do? She’s a nurse anesthetist. “Oh she’s a nurse.” No, she’s a nurse anesthetist and then he laughs and says, “So you are teachers and your mother is a nurse.” Yeah, so??? Give me back my resume you piece of shit. Ugh. All this for the price of a job. Like I’m what? A piece of meat you can poke around and see if it’s FDA approved? I wouldn’t work for you if this was the last job on earth and believe me it will be the last job, coocheez. Keep up the line of questioning. Oh yeah, and here’s a question for ya: What’s my name? And how do you pronounce it? That’s my test.
No, no, I’m not going through this again. It is criminal what I have had to contend with just to get a lousy, stinkin’ secretarial position. Like your bestowing a crown of jewels on me. It’s not. It’s a paycheck I felt like saying so I can bust out of this place and do what I want to do. But you know, it’s time I just busted out and did what I want to do anyway. The thought of giving another piece of my precious soul to some stupid man who can’t figure out how to tie his shoes, makes me want to commit hari kari…on him.
I’m not married, I don’t have children and people ask me why. I’ll tell you why, because I have had to take care of men all day long for the last 15 years and I am tired of raising my hand to go to the bathroom. Ladies, I hate to break the news to you but the glass ceiling is still there, there is no liberation in case you hadn’t noticed. We’re not any further along really then we were 40 years ago. Shame on you that continue to let yourselves be afraid of people like him. You have a choice, you always do. So do I. And my choice these days is going to be to perfect that game of chess I’ve been wanting to for years now. That and trying to sleep on the other side of the bed. And Opree's on at 3:00. Let’s change it up!!
Question: How many CEO’s does it take to change a light bulb? Answer: One secretary.
Hey, I’m just warming up here. Stay with me. I get to this interview in Brentwood of all places that I never am and find the visitor parking spot in the building next door where cars are shoved in spaces like sardines one on top of the other. After I get over my initial panic attack at another car parked behind me, I head for the offices of the place I’m interviewing. The woman who I talked to over the phone about the job greets me and she’s nice enough. In fact, she’s very pleasant and I find myself able to actually converse without any trace of animosity, irritation, annoyance, frustration or smoke coming out my ears at having to be there and repeat for the umpteenth time in my life what I’ve been doing for the last ten years or twenty years or whatever or where I’m from la dee dah, blah blah blah.
As she explains the job which is basically babysitting a grown man, which all these jobs ever are, how he wants his paper in the morning, me to be at my desk at 8 a.m. sharp, to remember every little item of his home, office, family and friends such as who was the plumber they got last year, what kind of light bulbs do they use on their chandeliers, you know, all really important stuff like that that makes me want to get up on the wrong side of the bed in the mornings, as she explains the job (can you say long run on sentence because I’m emotionally overwrought), I’m thinking how can I make a run for it. How can I actually beat it out of there before I have to meet this overgrown baby who’s known nothing but a silver spoon up his ass for as long as he’s been living and wouldn’t know how to wipe his own ass if it weren’t for some woman next to him telling him what to do.
But wait, there’s more. Stay with me. This gal I’m talking to then tells me that this CEO wants to hire someone who’s going to be there forever. Because when he retires, his son will take over for him and by the way, I’m working for the son as well. So I see, I should profess to want to be here for THE REST OF MY LIFE???!!!! WHAT??!! Right. Let me just rethink those plans to own my own company, be President of the United States, a vacation, that novel I want to write, oh and anything else exciting I wanted to do with my life because I am in this position forever.
Then she proceeds to tell me that he likes things just so every day and he doesn’t use a computer and will need me to tell him when he has a hair appt., keep his calendar, and so on and so on. Okay, two minutes into this job, I’d be teaching this guy how to use Microsoft Outlook calendar and email and how to listen to his own voicemails with the edict not to bother me unless he’s on fire, underpants, France and all, because I’ll be on the Internet and reading his paper. You gotta be kidding me.
Oh and the woman that’s in the position now is moving back to the East Coast and she might be going in two weeks or six weeks but he doesn’t like all the “not-knowing.” I see, he doesn’t like that she’s a human being with all the ups and downs, inconsistencies, unpredictabilities and the like of the human condition and her silly little life is interrupting his plans for haircuts and light bulb information. Riight. Sounds like a great job to me. All for the discounted price of 50 or 60k. Not even enough to save a decent amount of money for my silly little retirement but then again I’m supposed to calcify there in my chair and not retire at all.
But wait, there’s more. Between thinking of hightailing it out of there and how I could demonstrate a Section 8, this gal tells me that if I don’t have any questions, I can meet the man himself. Oh boy, I’ll bet this is going to be good. I do have a question: um, how big of a jerk is he really? Here’s another question: if I took a poll of all the people in the office, how many would say they’d like him as their dad? Oh, wait another question: what does his ex-wife say about him?
So I walk across the carpeted path with secs in cubes on one side and glass-walled offices on the other to this man’s office. I guess in their offices they like to know what you’re thinking, saying, and doing at all times which is what's up with all the glass walls or no walls. I notice how quiet it is in the area. You could hear a pin drop on the carpeting is how quiet it is. I walk in the office and see a short, gray haired, nice-looking guy who is probably not more than a decade older than I am, maybe 12 years at the most and shorter than me. Napolean, heal thyself. He motions for me to sit down in a chair at one end of his office and he then proceeds to sit in a chair all the way across the other side of his office. I mean, we were not close. I thought that maybe I would have to get out my megaphone to talk. Maybe he thought I had cooties. Maybe I do and don’t know it. That’s probably why I don’t get direct-hired a lot. That and my cranky attitude towards CEO’s who don’t know how to work computers and need me to remember plumbers and light bulbs. Okay, I digress.
So I sit down and he proceeds to grill me on every aspect of my resume wanting me to fill in the blanks of every year that I have on there from the time I graduated college. Oh and what college did I go to? “Never heard of it.” I don’t give a shit whether you heard of it or not, that’s where I went to school and so did my aunts and if it was good enough for them, it was for me. What did I do between 1994 and 1996? Slept. What do you think? I married Rip Van Winkle and slept.
Now the gal had prepped me for this next line of questioning by telling me that he likes to get to know his personnel and if it bothers me to answer anything, to just tell him. Okay. He asks me what my father does? I said my father died two years ago. His response was not, hey, I’m sorry to hear that, but (with a wave of his hand), "What did he do?" Okay. Excuse me, my father was everything to me and if you’re going to diss my family then you can take this job and shove it up your lily-white, silver-spooned fanny (said with a heavy ghetto accent and a jive shake of the head, remember, I am from Detroit).
Then he wants to know do I have brothers and sisters? A sister. “Oh is she married? (huh?) What does she do?” She teaches. What does your mother do? She’s a nurse anesthetist. “Oh she’s a nurse.” No, she’s a nurse anesthetist and then he laughs and says, “So you are teachers and your mother is a nurse.” Yeah, so??? Give me back my resume you piece of shit. Ugh. All this for the price of a job. Like I’m what? A piece of meat you can poke around and see if it’s FDA approved? I wouldn’t work for you if this was the last job on earth and believe me it will be the last job, coocheez. Keep up the line of questioning. Oh yeah, and here’s a question for ya: What’s my name? And how do you pronounce it? That’s my test.
No, no, I’m not going through this again. It is criminal what I have had to contend with just to get a lousy, stinkin’ secretarial position. Like your bestowing a crown of jewels on me. It’s not. It’s a paycheck I felt like saying so I can bust out of this place and do what I want to do. But you know, it’s time I just busted out and did what I want to do anyway. The thought of giving another piece of my precious soul to some stupid man who can’t figure out how to tie his shoes, makes me want to commit hari kari…on him.
I’m not married, I don’t have children and people ask me why. I’ll tell you why, because I have had to take care of men all day long for the last 15 years and I am tired of raising my hand to go to the bathroom. Ladies, I hate to break the news to you but the glass ceiling is still there, there is no liberation in case you hadn’t noticed. We’re not any further along really then we were 40 years ago. Shame on you that continue to let yourselves be afraid of people like him. You have a choice, you always do. So do I. And my choice these days is going to be to perfect that game of chess I’ve been wanting to for years now. That and trying to sleep on the other side of the bed. And Opree's on at 3:00. Let’s change it up!!
Question: How many CEO’s does it take to change a light bulb? Answer: One secretary.
posted by Maria @ 12:35 AM
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