And then I threatened to punch an elderly woman in the face.

For the most part, I really like my new fundraising job.  I don’t know what I’m doing at all, but luckily there’s a very simple equation that should help narrow my focus.  It goes like this:

Bambi + ? = $100,000,000 raised for a worthy cause

No problem, right?  All I have to do is figure out whatever that tiny little question mark stands for, and I’ll be raking in donations with a backhoe. 

In the mean time, I’ve been getting acquainted with our clients, volunteers and community partners, who are for the most part, lovely people.

And then there’s Maude.

At 83 years old, Maude is one of our longest serving volunteers.  She’s a very fashionable dresser, who told me when I complimented her on her summery outfit, that since she retired, she sees no reason why she shouldn’t dress like she’s embarking on a pleasure cruise every day.  From what I’ve seen of the woman, she takes this look deadly serious. 

Maude came to a recent information session my agency hosted, and mingled with the crowd. Afterward, as I cleared up the coffee and tea station, Maude approached me with a question.

“A bunch of us were wondering, dear.   Are you pregnant?”

First of all…no.  Just, no.  Unless there is a clearly identifiable baby head emerging from my vagina while I scream for drugs and or the castration of whatever bastard did this to me, let’s all safely assume I am not with child.

In fact, let’s assume that with my current sex life, any resulting pregnancy should be immediately reported to the Vatican.  It’s not that I’m a virgin, but given my recent surgical history and how very long it’s been, it’s safe to say I could qualify as such under most technical definitions of virginity.

I am however, kind of fluffy.  To make matters worse, the dress I was wearing had a funny little bunching of extra material over my tummy that pulls to the side.  Perhaps this decorative flourish simply drew undue attention to my mid-section.

I told Maude I was not pregnant, thinking this would be her cue to walk away from any ensuing awkward conversation while both of us still stood a chance of salvaging dignity.

 “Oh.  So it’s just your weight then is it?”

I was really, really starting to hate the shit out of Maude.

Actually, I explained to Maude, it could be a bad wardrobe choice.  Yes, I could stand to lose a few pounds after winter, but my dress was a little too big in the middle as a matter of fact, with extra material bunched and pulled, which may make it appear as a maternity dress.

Maude was having none of it.

Faster than I thought an 83 year old could bend, she suddenly had her well-coiffed old lady head resting against my stomach.  In explanation of why  her anchor shaped earring was pressing into my belly button, she said that she was so surprised more people hadn’t come up to me during the event to do exactly what she was doing, and listen for the baby kicking.

I bent to the side so Maude could see my not so motherly face staring at hers. 

“I’m glad more people didn’t do what you’re doing right now, because then I’d have to punch them in the face.  Because it’s rude.  And because I.  Am. Not. Pregnant.  Am I clear?”

Apparently, I was not, because Maude straightened up and patted my cheek like I was a sweetly dim-witted child.

“Well it would be OK if you were, dear.  There’s no shame in pregnancy!”

Indeed.  There is however, a considerable amount of shame when there’s no pregnancy. 

Bambi Finally Gets a Motherf#$&ing Job. Hooray!

A few statistics from my six months spent as a crippled, unemployed person with issues –

(And let me say, I can’t even begin to tell you how much better it feels now that I’m finally a crippled, employed person with issues.)

Number of episodes of Judge Judy watched: 330

Number of dress sizes increased: 4

Number of hours spent lying on the floor while physically unable to get up: 3

Number of hours spent lying on the floor while physically able to get up but lacking any real reason to do so: 14

Number of hours spent sexting with the firefighter: 180

Number of hours spent actually having sex with the firefighter: 0

Number of friends who stopped speaking to me as soon as I lost my job: 3

Number of house plants dead because I stopped caring: 8

Number of minutes spent hiding half-naked behind a door in a laundry room from somebody’s mother: 4

Number of additional part-time and or secondary jobs lost: 1

Number of problems shared with Jay-Z as per the song, 99 problems: 99 – and a bitch IS one

Number of Tim Horton’s steeped teas with two creams consumed per day: 2

Number of hours spent crying to the Adele 21 album: 23

Number of hours spent inexplicably crying to the Abba Gold album: 4

Number of EI applications submitted: 1

Number of EI applications rejected without any legal or procedural explanation but a letter attached explaining how to appeal: 1


Number of individual job applications submitted: 107

Number of interviews: 8

Number of full-time job offers in the fundraising sector extended and accepted: 1. 

A wise philosopher by the name of Kelly Clarkson once said, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”  Fantastic - because taken to the next logical conclusion: I am now Iron Man.   At the very least, I should be impervious to bullets, sharks, most strains of E. Coli and honey badgers. 

The sad fact is though – I am just as tightly clenched as I was the day I lost my job.  I don’t feel any relief.  Instead, I feel like I could lose the job I’m now working in at any second. 

My boss called me today to arrange a conference call, and I nearly burst into tears, certain that he wanted to talk with me about how the organization had made a terrible mistake in hiring me and were reversing that decision.

Even if I’m not let go immediately following my two-week employee anniversary, I’m kind of convinced that my body will just keep failing, and I won’t be able to function anyway.

I’m now in physiotherapy to address my back problems and subsequent disintegration of my knees but…something else can go wrong.  Anything else can go wrong.  Trust me people – if your genitals ever explode you’ll be rendered terribly, terribly alert too.

I don’t have normal people health problems, which means at any time I could fall victim to scurvy, Ebola, that infection that eats your skin, or whatever goiter is. 

Or I could just bend over the wrong way and not be able to move again.  Or try to have sex with somebody only to learn that instead of just exploding, my vagina has grown teeth. 

And what if something terrible happens that hasn’t already happened?  Something NEW and terrible?  What if just by worrying about it I’ll make it happen like the Stephen King version of the power of attraction? 

What if something happens to somebody I love?  What if I lose something else?  My family?  My friends?  My iPhone?

(I include my iPhone only because of the naked pictures. They’re not of me of course, but it would still be a disaster.)   

Basically, I’m waiting for further catastrophe.  If it comes, I’m devastated.  If it doesn’t, the dread remains exactly the same regardless.  Basically, I think my resiliency announced sometime in November 2011 that it was officially quitting this bitch, and I can hardly blame it.

Frankly, if I wasn’t already so afraid of being terminated in some other way, I’d quit this bitch too.

And Then I Lost My Shit and Gave Up

If I was a different person, finding out I didn’t get my dream job might have only emboldened me to try harder.  After all, by this time, the jobs I had applied for were starting to overtake my number of Facebook friends – which is really kind of an alarming realization, on many levels. 

By then, I should have been used to the relentless rejection.  Finding out the hiring panel for my dream job with my dream company (conveniently located in the same city as my dream guy) chose another candidate should probably have left me still capable of standing. 

If I was a REALLY different person, I might have considered this outcome to be a sign from the universe that this job prospect simply wasn’t meant to be.  Better things were just around the corner.  It would all work out in the end. 

Of course, if I were to be that kind of person, I’d probably want to shoot myself in the face, the same way I want to shoot other people spouting off those same platitudes whenever shit goes down or gets real.

So instead, I’m Bambi.  And I cried myself into hiccup spasms for seven days straight and ate nothing but peanut butter using chocolate covered graham crackers as spoons.  I refused to answer the phone.  I didn’t go outside.  I woke up at 3:00 pm with peanut butter in my hair. It was glorious.

Despite having managed to not get hired out of every other job competition I entered, this one disappointment left me absolutely shattered. 

I wanted that job so badly, in my mind, I had already moved cities and house, into a lakefront property I could now afford.  I had already traded in my car for that new convertible with payments now within my reach, and was practicing jaunty ways to put my hair up in case of a windy day while driving. 

I already knew what evenings Alex could spend with me, and rehearsed several calm responses for when his girlfriend inevitably found out and wanted to kick my ass.  I would try for an air of regret, empathy, bravado and defensive posturing.  And then I figured I’d go for her eyes if I had to. 

Even more than that, I wanted the damn job.  I wanted to be good at something again.  I wanted a reason to feel hope again.  To get out of bed.  To shower. 

Not getting that job meant I would never have any of those things.  Ever.  It was my one shot at everything I ever wanted, and I didn’t get it.  Ergo, I would never have anything I want.  Ever.  I realize my logic may be slightly flawed here, but try to follow along.

What made the sucking disappointment that much worse, was the reason why I didn’t get the job.  After about a week or so of hiccupping snot, tears and chocolate flavor, I called my dream employer to find out what I could have done differently in my interview.  Or more specifically, why in the fuck they didn’t pick me. 

You’ll need to be sitting down for this one.

Apparently, they loved me.  They were so impressed by me.  However, given that a large part of the role would be engaging with a high school aged audience, they felt I was too mature of a presence.  Not too old mind you – but too mature.

Umm.   Who did these people think they met??  
 

In fact, for those five people who read this blog, let’s try an experiment.  Regardless of whether you know me well or have never met me, I suspect the results will be the same.  All you have to do is fill in the blanks below with any word of your choosing, based on what you know about me.

Bambi is one of the most _______ people I know.  Whenever I talk to her, she always has a story that demonstrates her incredible capacity for __________.  That one time, when she was still optimistic enough to try online dating and that one guy stole her ___________ and then that other guy wanted her to _______ him with a ___________  that he hid in his laptop bag while eating ice cream…that was kind of ______.  Bambi manages her relationships with guys like ______ and ______with utmost ______ and behaves in a perfectly _______ manner, at all times.  Unless there's a _______ uniform involved, in which case, all bets are off.

Now I ask you – did you complete any of those sentences with the words mature or maturity?  If you did, I’m astonished.  If you didn’t use any one of the following words: ridiculous,bizarre or fucktard, I’m equally shocked, although I suppose fucktard could technically count as two words.   

If you did drop the m-bomb, I suggest you go back and read some of my archived blog postings, because clearly you’re confused.  Either that or you make even worse life choices than I do, in which case, we should really meet for a drink.

And yet, despite my history and what should be common knowledge, I lost out on my dream job because of my maturity.  And so I cried, because at that point, all of my mature responses had been used right up.