>When I applied for a position as a Crime Scene Technician, the application process was pretty lengthy.  Brutal, might be a better way to describe it. 

First was the initial application.  Then there was the phone interview.  Then I had to go out to Arizona and take a written test, followed by a panel interview (for those who might not know, a panel interview is where a group of people take turns asking questions).  After the panel interview I had to fill out a back ground sheet listing places I lived, people I’ve lived with, I’m sure I had to list again my places of employment and education. 

After I filled out the bakground sheet I had to meet with an individual who’s responsibility it was to review the information I provided and determine if I could go on to the polygraph test or if I listed something that was considered an automatic disqualifier.  For example, people who don’t make their child support payments but spend hundreds of dollars a month gambling would be automatically disqualified. 

This process was gruelling.  She made me empty out my closet full of skeletons and explain each and every thing I did or thought about doing in my past.  Have you ever wanted to cry or felt like you should cry because you walked off with an office pen in your purse?  What about all those times that you felt just a little sick and probably could have gone to work but you called in sick anyway?  The interview started around 9 am and was done by 10am.  It felt like an entire lifetime had passed.  I got back to the hotel and told my husband that I needed a drink. He told me that we could go in an hour to get some food and then I could have a drink.  “NO!”, I said.  “I NEED A DRINK!  There’s a bar open in this town somwhere!”  By 10:45, I had my first drink, a dirty martini, straight up with Gray Goose.

The next day was my polygraph test.  A continuation of the previous day only this time I was hooked up to a machine.  The gentleman conducting the test seemed nice and most of the questions were pretty straightford.  And then he threw me a curve ball. 

Him:  “Have you have ever had sex with a barn animal?”
Me:    “No.”  Did he seriously just ask me that?
Him:   “Have you ever thought about having sex with a barn animal?”
Me:    “No.”  WTF?

At the end of the test there was this unbearable silence in the room.  He sat there, probably only for two minutes but it felt like longer, hemming and hawwing over whatever information came across the screen.

Me:  “Is there a problem?”
Him:  “Well, it’s probably nothing,”

Oh God!  Oh God!  What?  What now?  I told you bastards everything!  I’ve never felt more violated in my entire life.  What?  What?  What!

Him:  “I’m just curious.  What were you thinking about when I asked you if you’d ever had sex with a barn 
          animal?”

Seriously?

Me:  “I guess I was wondering if the chickens counted?”

I think I’ll file that one under “Things I wish I had said at the time.”  Truthfully, I don’t remember what I said.  I just remember running as fast as I could back to a bar.