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Interviews Bite.

Open the champagne – I survived my interview.

I don’t want to hold off celebrating until after I find out whether I got hired, because there’s a possibility that I didn’t get hired and then we’d feel weird drinking the champagne.  Well, I wouldn’t feel weird – I hardly ever do.  But you might feel awkward drinking a celebratory type drink around a failure of a human being, and I’d really like to spare you the embarrassment.

But you know, the fact that I made it through my first job interview since early 2008 without falling on my face or sporting massive pit stains really is a feat in itself.  And I’ll tell you what – after over 6 years of holding salary positions and living in cubicle land, interviewing for a part-time  waitress/bartending job was cake.

I just plopped myself down at the bar, filled out the application, and had a quick chat with the manager.  Nope, no 3 hour interviews here!

(Though I’d be lying if I said she didn’t express a tiny bit of disbelief when she read my past three employers were Plexus Logistics International, CDM, and the Civil Engineer Squadron at Moody Air Force Base.  I told her she could call any of them – our breakups were amicable.  So Jason, if you’re reading this, please be nice to Nancy or Danielle if one of them calls. Oh, and please don’t tell them about this blog!)

I was so relieved on my walk back to the car, awed by the difference between this experience and an interview for a job I had back in 2007.  We had just moved to North Carolina, and I was eager to work in a real office building with a lobby and an elevator and key card access and clacking heels and pencil skirts and people bustling through the halls with rolled up maps and plans.

It seemed so grown up.

A couple of days before the highly anticipated interview, I noticed a small, unobtrusive-yet-slightly-odd bump on the back of my leg just below my bum.  Don’t ask how I noticed it.  I just did.  I didn’t think about it again until the next day when it was distinctively larger and sore. It had an elliptical red shape surrounding it, and all I could think after living in this strange and exotic land of the Sandhills for only a couple of months, was this. is. not. right.

Not at all.

So I did what any American 20-something with a computer and internet access would do.  I Googled it.  And the results were terrifying.

I found myself inundated with photos of spider bites.  More specifically, spider bites of the Brown Recluse.  I will spare you the photos here, but if you haven’t heard of the Brown Recluse, do yourself a favor and forget I ever mentioned it.  Do not, under any circumstances, Google it.  You have been warned.

Of course I ran off for an emergency visit to my doctor who, after his idiotic intern who should have spent more time studying her med books and less time applying lipstick determined it was a pimple, verified that it was, in fact, a spider bite but NOT that of the recluse.  He wrote me a prescription, told me it was going to get worse before it got better, and sent me on my merry way.

The day of the interview arrived.  Sitting in a conference room for 3 hours while a different person comes in each hour to grill you about your education, experience and interest in the company is not a comfortable situation.  Now imagine sitting in a conference room for 3 hours while a different person comes in each hour to grill you about your education, experience, and interest in the company when sitting is the most profoundly physically painful thing anyone has ever asked you to do.

Ever.

Oh, and you just spent an hour-and-a-half driving to get to the interview.

My bum was on fire.  And I was afraid to stand to relieve it between interviewers lest I burst into tears and run crying from the building and for ever after be remembered as the candidate who cried because her butt hurt.  Oh no.  I was stronger than that.

So why was I telling this story?

Oh yeah.  The interview yesterday was easy.  Too easy.  I’m a little worried.  But I’m going back tonight to meet with the other manager.  Apparently a second opinion is in order.

I can’t say I blame them because I am a sketchy character.

Here’s hoping they don’t figure that out until after I’m hired.

I Call Mulligan

Well, it’s official.

Today I’ve committed myself.  And no, I’m not currently surrounded by men in clean white coats who are coming to take me away.

I’ve committed myself to applying for a job.  Not a job job, but just a job.  You know, something that will get me out of the house and interacting with creatures who walk on less than 4 legs and don’t lick my face by way of greeting.

It’s the kind of job I’ve done before – back when I was still going to school and thought I was working towards something better.

Turns out that “better” is a state of mind.

If only I’d known that before all those student loans, huh?

There are several things I plan on doing before I muster the nerve to go out and let someone tell me whether or not I’m good enough.  I still need to finish this blog post, work out, shower, start some laundry, and make myself somewhat presentable for immersion in the outside world.  It’s been awhile, but I’m pretty sure I remember that the outside world doesn’t appreciate bare feet, outdated glasses, and dog hair covered peacoats.  So these things I need to remedy before I leave.

And while I’m doing these things, I know the fear will start to creep into my system.  I’m a fairly confident person.  I’m not easily shaken.  But what if – what if – this is the time when they finally tell me to grow up?  They don’t want me for this job?  I have too much experience?  Why on earth would you want to come back to this when you’ve had some of that?

I won’t know what to say.  Maybe for the first time ever.

And that scares the hell out of me.

So please wish me luck.  For the sake of mulligans.  Do-overs.  New beginnings.  Whatever you want to call it.  This isn’t something I want to do forever.  I’m just dipping my toes.  But apparently I’m dipping them with my socks on because, like I said, the outside world – especially the food service industry – doesn’t appreciate bare feet.

Holy crap, what am I doing?

V is for Validation

Okay, it’s that time.

What time?

You know what time.  Resolution time.

This year I’m keeping it simple.  None of this “I’m going to read 587 best-selling novels, earn a 43% pay increase (which in my case wouldn’t actually be that difficult at this point), and have a body like Jillian Michaels by the end of the year” bullshit.

Nope.  My resolution is to make myself worthy of mention in my mom’s 2011 holiday letter.  And not just a quickie single-line nod to the fact that I’m still alive, either.  I want an actual, unskimmable, entire blurb – or maybe even a paragraph – the kind filled with an unmistakable tone of pride on the part of the writer – about a positive aspect of my life.

An accomplishment.

This is not because I want notoriety or depend on my mom’s holiday letter for validation about my life.  I want to do something for me.  I want to not feel like I’m failing.  And okay, maybe I do need to see it in the letter for validation.

The proof of the fact that I need to pick things up came when I realized the only mention of me in my mother’s 946-word holiday letter email – the one she sent to all of her friends and family – is right after she announced that one of her (practically) step daughters is pregnant and it’s the best thing ever except that it’s not because my mom and Ed are not actually married and I guess that means she won’t “officially” be a grandmother because in order for that to happen, one of the children she bore from her womb and whose butts she lovingly wiped and whose noses she lovingly sucked free of boogers with one of those booger-sucking devices would need to have his or her own child and lovingly wipe its butt and suck boogers from its nose.  In other words, I would need to get pregnant.  Or my unmarried (but totally awesome) little sister.  Or my unmarried (but totally awesome) older brother.  Except he’s gay so there’s even less chance that he’ll get pregnant.  AND he’s a guy so actually there’s zero chance he’ll get pregnant.

So what was I saying?

Oh yeah.  I know that I need to work on accomplishing something because the only mention of me in my mom’s letter is how she’s keeping her fingers crossed that I’ll give her a grandbaby one day, but her guess is that Ed’s other daughter will be next.  That’s it.  And it’s justified because I really did not do anything worth mentioning in 2010.  Except the Costa Rica thing.  That was kinda cool.

And for the record, Ed’s daughters really are great.  They’re really nice people and they do things like… you know… visit Ed and my mom.  So they have that going.  And they want to have babies.

I suppose I wouldn’t have to actually get pregnant to earn a more notable mention in the holiday letter.  Which is good, because I have no intention of doing that any time soon.  Finding a job – especially a job that means something – would probably do the trick.  Or maybe if I make an important discovery or save someone’s life or become the first woman to reach the summit of Mount Everest wearing nothing but my Uggs and a smile.

And now enough of this emo crap, am I right?  This will be a year of happiness.

So while I’ll admit that I might have lost some of my earlier resolve over the holidays by distracting myself with red wine and peanut butter balls, rest assured that I’m back in the game.  The résumé update starts January 1st.  Possibly the 2nd if I’m too hung over on the 1st.  But you get the idea.

What are some of your New Year resolutions?

*Disclaimer: I am NOT blaming my mom for my lack of mention in her letter about HER year! I’m simply using it as a testament to the fact that this year I need to do… more.