Now that . . . what can only be called . . . my sabbatical gone bad nears an end, I have engaged in a search for gainful employment.  I crafted a personal sales brochure, otherwise known as my resume with cover letter.  It is a masterpiece of marketing, extolling the acumen of my past accomplishments, articulating the aptitude of my skills and generally eulogizing the genius of  . . . well . . . me.  My e-mail box should have been overflowing with offers, but not so much.  It seems the world has a surplus of out of work virtuosos in my field and I don’t seem to be “fitting” the exacting requirements of those in need of my particular expertise.

What to do?  Mass marketing is the answer I have come up with.  I decided to apply for anything I might have even a remote chance of being considered for.  And how is that working out for me?  I have been inundated with responses.  I’d have to say I’ve been hit up by every scam out there.  Beware Craigslist want ads.  Of the genuine businesses I’ve managed to contact . . . oh yeah . . . the computer-generated replies have been copious.  You know the standard . . . “Thank you for your interest blah, blah, blah and don’t call us, we’ll call you.”  As for real live people . . . I can’t be totally positive, but I think there has been ONE.

Can you imagine my joy in finding an e-mail from what appears to be a person saying a legitimate company was interested in me?  Oh go ahead, of course, you can.  Picture the sweet, young thing from the “go to college in your PJs” commercial.  Now age her significantly; replace the sexy, little pajamas with ratty yoga pants and a wife-beater; mess the hair into a frizzy, uncombed mass contained by a one of those clawed, clippie things; and animate that image dancing (badly) round a kitchen with dirty dishes in the sink and a pile of unwashed laundry on the floor.  There, you’ve got it.

The response came from the corporate office of a chain of . . . well, shall we say . . . naughty stores.  My brain went into overdrive with questions and scenarios.  Would thigh-high boots and a vinyl cat suit qualify as professional attire?  I was going to have to reassess my wardrobe.   Would I be permitted to whip my boss when he or she acts like a dick?  Bad boss . . . lick my boot.  Would I get an employee discount?  Massage oil, vibrators and cock rings for everybody this Christmas.  Instead of sick days, would I get sex days?  Okay, that may have been a little over the top. 

Seriously though, I was thrilled.  I have no objections to the retail sex industry.  The boyfriend even got me a preferred customer card from one of the more conservative chains.  (Yes, Babe, I got your message.)  If I were to land the job, Mum would get over it . . . eventually . . . and I’m sure her pacemaker would kick in before she suffered any permanent damage.   I’m not certain what she would tell her friends at Wednesday morning prayer meeting, but I know she’d think of something creative.

I was confident they only had to meet me to realize what an outstanding hire I am and what a stellar employee I would be.  There was but one obstacle in my way.  They wanted me to take a core values (CVI) survey prior to setting up the interview.  I consider myself a sincere, congenial person with integrity and a strong work ethic.  Without hesitation, I completed the questionnaire and e-mailed the results back to my one and only human-seeming contact.  What could I possibly have to fear?

So, you tell me . . . what does it say when a company that sells sex toys, videos and paraphernalia finds my core values not to be in line with that of their corporation?  Do you think I should be worried?

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