Monday, July 30, 2007
Dog Eat Dog Eat Ibuprofen
The hunt continues. If I hear one more time that I'm grossly overqualified for a position, I'm going to scream. Golly - seems that I have exactly the experience and qualifications you're looking for, Mr. Employer - what gives? My age? Oh, I'm in my thirties - 30-16 to be exact.
That's enough griping, even for me.
On the upside, my cute widdle doggie chewed everything that was on my desk, including a bottle of Ibuprofen, Rite Aid generic, of course. It was a bottle of 50 easy-to-swallow caplets and I think I consumed maybe ten since I bought it. so, that's 40 pills. 15 is enough to kill a St. Bernard, apparently. Lucky for me, I don't have a St. Bernard, just a 14 pound, over-energetic Pomeranian that looks more like a Spitz. Off to the vet I went, where she was lavaged, IV'ed and carbonized, a la Han Solo, I'm guessing. The vet also lavaged my wallet to the tune of five hundred bucks, but who can put a price on love? I came awfully close.
It seems the pup will make it, as of the latest report, though it's not certain since Ibuprofen destroys the kidneys, in all mammals, if taken in sufficient quantities. She consumed 10 times the quantity sufficient to do her in. Had I been at work, I'd be coming home to a sobbing child and a canine in the beginning stages of rigor.
The next time I'm feeling like it's all too much, I may very well happily chew the child-proof (but not dog-proof) cap of some unlikely OTC substance and have at it. At the moment, I'm feeling an unsure relief, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I've switched gears in my job hunt. I spent twenty years as an entrepreneur and top-management type and decided that it would be fitting to spend the rest of my working days on the other end of the food chain. Unh-uh. Nope. Wrong. Smashing heads and taking names seems to be in my blood and how could life be better than having an entire staff to blame for my misjudgements, especially through the clever guise of "empowerment." Yeah, that sounds pretty good to me.
So, tomorrow, I have a four-hour interview, consultation with an image specialist and publicist to re-enter the world of dogs eating dogs. F*ck 'em, I say, if they can't . . . no, strike that - just plain f*ck 'em. Grrrrr.
Downside? Seventy-hour weeks. Enough bullsh*t to cover 3000 acres of sub-prime farmland. Deception as strategy. No ethics whatsoever, just so that I can get the Ethics Manual done on time. No straight answers to arrow-straight questions. Upside? Money. Money is power. Oh, you thought knowledge was power? With money, I can buy knowledge and thus, benefit from the power attached, and I can go to Bombay or Beijing or Hanoi to get it, cheaply. I can say f*ck you and mean it. I can personal-train and face-lift my way to an impression of health and wellness that says to the world, "Not with me, buddy, and not today." So, if I have to be a Piggie, might as well be the Piggie-In-Chief. Sh*t, yeah.
Thank you for sponsoring what is either a tirade or a massively jubilant response to near-doggie demise. Your attention in this matter is appreciated.