There are few things in this world that immediately (and if there was a way to quantify ‘faster than immediately’ - like instantaneously? immediately -.0001 seconds? speed of light-edly?) causes me to grit my teeth and want to strangle someone, it’s being called on my crackberry, while sitting next to my desk phone during business hours by a salesperson. I will not only grit my teeth, I will, more than likely, hang up on them. Because, y’know? Crackberry. Phone. Business Hours. Desk. Fucking Salesperson.

I mark their name down on my little cheat sheet of hatred and vow to never, ever do business with them or their company. If I have no choice (like, it’s the only option or my bosses tell me I have to or die) then I will, but the teeth stay gritted and I ask them venomously politely to send me the information in an email. “Oh, and by the way, please call me at 555-666-hate during business hours - I’m nearly always at my desk. If not, I’m in a meeting and won’t be able to talk anyway.”

Then I hang up and bitch at the phone for a few minutes. And gesticulate using a certain finger that is between the one I use to point and the one sporting my ring.

Today, though, I actually managed to act civil when it happened. (Act being the operative word there. I must be growing up. Momanddad would be so proud!)

You’re asking yourselves, “But Hot, why would today be any different?” And I say to you, “Because I need this asshat.” He’s my new Find Me Big Money Keep Me Out of the Unemployment Line Executive Recruiter. (See, get the resume finished and then feel like you have to show.it.off. To people and shit.)

Anyway, I got an email from him first. First! (Such a tease. Made me think that he knew what he was doing.) So, I responded. Sent him that resume. Told him I’d like to speak with him, on THURSDAY. (Y’all? Is today Thursday? Um, no. Didn’t think so. Thanks.) I even gave him a time. “Is 11 o’clock okay? I’ll block off my calendar.”

Not thirty minutes later, my crackberry starts ringing. I see the area code. We have an office in that area code. Maybe someone needs something and doesn’t have my desk #.

“The Hotfessional speaking”.

“Hot, this is Mr. Recruiter. I received your response to my email and wanted to give you a call.”

At this point, I’m getting NPR on my fillings they’re rubbing together so hard.

“Please call me back on my desk phone. The number is 555-666-hate. Thanks.” Click.

He does. And we have a very nice conversation. And make plans to talk on Thursday @ 11. And he offers to send me some information (not about a job, because he doesn’t have one, he’s just making contact) to my home email. Because he’s smart that way. And shall he call me at my desk on Thursday?

“That would be perfect Mr. Recruiter.”

(Hey, maybe he’s not an asshat. Or at least he’s young and trainable. )

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—- Heard from the living room last night. “Hey, the cat is carrying Baby Jesus’s mother around in her mouth.” —-

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