What is ridiculous? OK I will tell you. After I posted the last entry I entertained a few brief ungraphic fantasies about finding a way to write in my diary, that which I apparently cannot not do, without touching on the ugly and shameful subject of my non-employment. Like I would sit here and listen to, what, the Silos or something, and I would Stepford-diaristlike type type type about my cute silly kitty and whatever I�m reading and the movies I�ve seen and what I�ve cooked lately. (E.g., from a recipe I copied out of a book Catharine and Julie have, I adapted some very tasty yellow-split-pea fritters; needs refinements but promising. Und meatloaf.) Like that�s the story. I wish it could be, I wish I could pretend it is, but it is not. One of the requirements of this new temp job, it turns out, is running out during the day to go to the drugstore a few blocks down and buy cigarettes for the big boss. Another one involves getting the big boss�s lunch, and yet another has to do with getting her coffee every morning. (The only way in which it could possibly be worse would be if she insisted on Starbucks.) On the one hand, I don�t care, because as a temp one has to be immune to this sort of thing, but on the other hand it�s worth noting that the permanent version of this particular temp job, an open position, requires about an hour and a half per day of work, asks only a high-school diploma "or equivalent," and pays at minimum a whopping $x � 26% more than the starting salary at Gastro would have been, probably about on par with the average for things inmyfield that I�ve been applying for, slightly more than half of what the last person makes who bragged to me about the extent to which he is in clover � a figure which does not include the allegedly substantial overtime and neither takes into account the fantastic benefits. So part of me was thinking, oh oh oh, I could totally be someone�s cig bitch for this amount of money and that many sick days, if they liked my writing samples they�ll go crazy for my words-per-minute� and then, already hating myself a little bit for being such a whore, from the person who is training me I found out something that made me feel so na�ve and yet so murderous and on both counts so ashamed of myself all over again and also so, yes, despairing and willing to leave town tonight if there were half a chance I could get some on-the-job respect in Omaha or Osceola or Oneata or, oh my god, anywhere but here all right sorry I am being melodramatic and Steve just got me some more wine, let us get straight to the math. Now, the temp job I am working, it is not in the private sector. And that is about all I�m going to say, because with respect to the other stuff I am probably going to say too much. Namely: I learned that there is a numerical formula for evaluating applicants for this strain of non-private sector jobs (btw: they asked me the exact same questions yesterday in the exact same order that I got asked at the interviews last summer � here�s to you, Lucille!) and that it is a one-to-five scale for skills and aptitude times one, seniority of whoever within the non-private-sector system recommends you for the position times two, and your own personal seniority within the system times three. So let�s say that you are applying, from your current corporate position, for a certain job and you are a genius, an overachiever with a resume for which managers routinely cream their Dockers. You and your brain get 5, but since you have "self-referred" � this is the term � you don�t get points for referrer seniority nor for your own seniority. And let�s say that another candidate is applying from within the sick, sick system. He is barely literate and barely competent, earning a 1 of 5 for skills, but he has been working inside the machine for a few months � 1 of 5 � and comes to the interview with a recommendation from someone who�s been ditto for a few months more, also 1 of 5. The smart cat has a total score of 5. The chimp, however, has a total score of 1 + 3 + 2, a 6 � and since this formula is the union dictated, legally mandated only way in which to decide who gets the open position, the moron wins. The formula is biased in favor of the incompetent. Not only am I excluded from consideration for filling this position permanently, it is instead going to go to one of the chuckleheads whose resume references her experience as a "coordinater" or abbreviates her address with "Ste." instead of "St." The person who is training me told me that the only two ways to get hooked up with a non-private-sector job like this one are to take any old position you can get as your first desk job out of high school or college and start your own seniority clock ticking or to suck up hard to, say, a DMV grandma who�s been clerking for 30 years. The merely competent, said my trainer, need not apply. I hate HR. I hate the non-private sector. I despise their intersection.

And here�s the kicker: it�s not like I even want the job! I don�t! I�d go crazy. It is thankless and menial and all the other people in the office are soft and lazy and smug and can�t spell and have a disgustingly inflated opinion of their civic importance and wear a lot of polyester and decorate their cubicles and offices with sepia-toned and tinted studio portraits of their children or grandchildren playing with antique toys on fluffy white rugs, they basically hang out and gossip and eat cookies all day. And me, I�d rather eat glass. But oh my god, the salary, for that much money I�m yet again ashamed to admit this but you could ask me to eat pretty much anything. And that�s what it�s come to. And, I guess � if you see what I mean here � the fact that that�s what it�s come to. And also how it happens that in the office where my temp job shakes down there is someone I used to work with at AcmeWidget.com, the programmer version of telemark-Barbie Julie � she is a coffee buddy of one of the IT execs, which presumably is how she made the cut � and how when she was introduced to me this morning she actually said, "Hey, I know you, you used to work at AcmeWidget.com! And, wait, didn�t you used to be a writer?" And how loud her voice is. And, shit. Is this all there is?

And Steve, bless him, has opened another bottle and I am its beneficiary. This is a fair warning to everyone who reads this page, I may be in the process of becoming an alcoholic. Just so you know.

The opposite of being a private one � this is my favorite Google search in a long time via which someone arrived at my diary. They switched my start time from nine to eight, the bastards, so I have to start getting my ass ready for bed. (Yes, I am deeply rueful about blowing off the newspaper assistant assistant interview and the possibility of money through April, I forgot to mention that the stack of resumes from GED girls who can�t spell is quite tall and that my tenure will be up by mid-January at the latest.) I�m getting trained through the end of the week, but starting Monday I hope to be able to get paid temp money to bitch and whine to my diary during the day. You can�t wait, can you?