Job-Share!

In the interest of absolutely nothing, I would like to know what your worst job or job interview is...,

I think I told you all about the interview I went on when I was compared to a monkey in the skills department but I have also worked for a man who took phone calls in the bathroom and talked about his sex life in excruciating detail while sitting not 3 feet away from me.

I once had a job as a roller skating carhop... I got the job because I fit the uniform. My first night on skates I tripped and dumped a tray full of milkshakes over the hood of a new Rolls Royce.

However, the very pinnacle of employment suckiness came when I was working as a lowly production assistant on my first commercial job... the director was newly dating one of the models in the ad and it was her bulldog's birthday. Mr. Director thought that the surfire way into La Lovely's pants was to purchase a special gift for Rex, well, actually, if I were to buy a present for Rex... he decides on a dog bone.

Ok. Dog bone, simple enough, 30 minutes to PetSmart and back...easy peasy.

But no. No it's not because he wants this to be an actual bone. Like from the cow. So, I try a few butchers, but none of them have a bone that is big enough to satisfy Mr. Fuckball Director. No, this bone must be LONG and GIRTHY (anyone else catching the inadequacy issues?) and FRESH.

So, I find myself on the phone to numbers kindly supplied to me by the fellows behind the meat counter at Gelson's to various slaughterhouses in the Los Angeles area.

Nice.

And I learn, because there is always something to learn, that they only kill the animals on Tuesdays, and, as this is Wednesday, the bones have already been picked up by the company who is actually in charge of these things. However, if I hurry down to San Pedro, I can probably beat the bone collectors down there as they are on their lunch...

Salvation?

So, I hustle down to San Pedro and find the slaughterhouse in question and let me tell you the look of utter surprise on the face of the workers when I came tripping in with on a pair of kitten heels.

Bone thusly acquired, I drive back to Los Angeles to the stationery shop that I used... a very precious and chi-chi stationery shop located on the obnoxiously posh street of Montana Avenue in Santa Monica.

From my car in the parking lot I phone in and speak to the woman who has helped my over the years and I tell her, "Hello, Marcy, this is Kristin and I have a large fresh cow femur-type bone in my car that I need wrapped in spangling paper for a dog's birthday."

And bless her soul if she didn't sneak that bone in through the rear entrance and
package that sucker up in the most lovely of papers.

As I drove back to the studio I found myself thinking, is this what my parents spent frillions of dollars on my education for... so that I could find my way to kill floors and sneak bones into snooty shops?

So that some short dude can get banged by a model?

I arrive back and bearing my large and FUCKING HEAVY gift I hand it over to Mr. Director... who promptly beats haste to the floor and presents, with a flourish I might add, the damn bone.

Without so much as a thank you.

*sigh*

Now it makes me laugh, actually, even then it made me laugh.

So, there you go, my lowest employment moment.

And probably lovely stationery-Marcy's too.

But, I bet neither of us thought about donning adult diapers and taking him out.

Now.

Tell me yours.